


Cut The Rose

by The_Arkadian



Series: The Apostate Chronicles [5]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 74,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian/pseuds/The_Arkadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders didn't die. The story of what came after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story comes from the Killing Joke song, "A Love Like Blood":
> 
>  _We must play our lives like soldiers in the field  
>  But life is short I'm running faster all the time  
> Strength and beauty destined to decay  
> So cut the rose in full bloom_
> 
>  _'til the fearless come and the act is done  
>  A love like blood, a love like blood_
> 
>  _Everyday through all frustration and despair  
>  Love and hate fight with burning hearts  
> 'til legends live and man is god again  
> (and self-preservation rules the day no more)_
> 
>  _'til the fearless come and the act is done  
>  A love like blood, a love like blood_
> 
>  _We must dream of promised lands and fields  
>  That never fade in season  
> As we move towards no end we learn to die  
> Red tears are shed on grey _
> 
> _'til the fearless come and the act is done  
>  A love like blood, a love like blood  
> 'til the fearless come and the act is done  
> A love like blood, a love like blood_

He came to slowly.

With dawning consciousness came the fierce stabbing of pain. He could feel the blade keenly; embedded in his back, between two ribs; breathing was hard – he couldn't draw enough breath to fill his lungs. The blade had pierced a lung. If he'd lain unconscious for much longer, he would likely have drowned in his own blood.

Still might.

The stones were cold against his cheek; the distant sounds of fighting drifted to him, but the courtyard was silent. He was just another bloodied corpse on the ground where so many others lay sprawled in death, except he somehow still lived.

He shouldn't be alive. That hadn't been part of the plan.

Instinctively, he drew on the magic, probing through his body to establish the extent of his injuries. Minor scrapes for the most part; the only grave threat to his life right now was the dagger in his back and the blood slowly filling his lungs.

His hands curled inwards to press against his own chest, the magic pooling in his hands as he concentrated. It whispered coolly against his palms then flowed like liquid smoke into his body, the blue glow hidden by his body. He kept his eyes closed as he reached within, channelling healing to where he needed it most, stopping the bleeding, diverting the blood away and taking a deeper breath as he did so. He shunted the blood into his stomach, aware he would briefly regret that but not having much choice right then.

He fumbled with one hand behind his back, twisting as his fingers fumbled for the cold metal hilt of the knife. He grasped it and drew a deep breath.

 _This is going to hurt._

Biting down on the black suede of his jacket, he yanked the blade from his flesh with a muffled scream. The blade fell from numb fingers and he slumped against the stones, feeling hot, wet blood flood down his back to pool beneath him. He felt himself starting to weaken, and pressed a hand flat against his chest again, channelling the magic once more to close the wound and heal the sundered flesh before he could bleed out. He felt a deep exhaustion wash over him from blood loss and the drain of forcing his body's natural healing into an accelerated pace.

He didn't know how long he lay there afterwards, but eventually he managed to slowly push himself up into a sitting position.

He didn't know what he was going to do now, but he knew he couldn't stay there. Sooner or later, someone would come to deal with the bodies, and he didn't like to think what would happen when they discovered he was still alive. He didn't fancy trusting himself to the less than tender mercies of the templars. And he no longer hoped for anything from Hawke. After all, it had been Hawke's hand that had driven the blade into his back.

Hawke.... He closed his eyes as tears threatened to overwhelm him. _No. Don't think about it. Get out of here. Think later._ He opened his eyes and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet.

A moment later he fell to his knees, doubled over as his stomach twisted and he retched, vomiting up the blood. He gagged as his body spasmed, trying to force out every last drop from his body. It felt as though it were twisting itself inside out as it emptied itself of its entire contents, voiding dark blood and bile across the stones as he groaned. When his stomach finally stopped heaving, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, shuddering, and then slowly pushed himself back up to his feet again.

Slowly he peeled off the feathered jacket and regarded it sadly. He was fond of it; it had been a gift from -

 _No. Don't think about that now._ The jacket was memorable; too many people were familiar with the sight of him in it. He let it fall to the ground, the tunic following after. He stripped off the bloodstained grey robe beneath.

His shirt... He shook his head. Linen shirts and grey pants were common enough. It was the robe, the tunic and the jacket that marked him out.

He glanced around speculatively.

A short while later, he crept silently out of the courtyard. His blond hair hung loose around his face, brushing his shoulders. A dark grey long-sleeved tunic hung from his thin shoulders; he'd lost so much weight, the garment fitted poorly upon him. The belt he'd stolen from another corpse helped pull it in tight around his waist. The long dark green hooded coat was warm; he was thankful that the mage it had belonged to had died from a thrust to the heart and not a stab in the back – it was unblemished by blood or tears.

A blond corpse now lay on the stones in his place, dressed in his clothes. He had thrust his own dagger into the back; Hawke's dagger was now tucked into the sheath at his waist beneath the jacket. He had left his staff there; he hated to leave it behind, but it marked him as a mage.

Right now, that would be a fatal mistake to make.

He didn't know where he would go. But he couldn't stay here. There was war on the streets, and though a couple of hours ago he had been willing to die, now he realised he very much wanted to live. And that meant he had to get out of Kirkwall.

Anders stared at the smoke that still rose from the ruined remains of the Chantry. Then he turned and slipped into the side streets of Kirkwall, making his way towards Darktown.


	2. Chapter One

Anders stared around the ruins of his clinic. He could have wept, except he suspected that if he started, he would never be able to stop.

He pushed through the slashed remains of the curtain that closed off his small room from the rest of the clinic. They'd destroyed this room too; his small cot was overturned, the bedding slashed and ruined. His pack had been upended, the contents strewn around the room. Smashed vials and potion bottles were scattered over the dirt floor, the contents seeping into his spare robe. Ripped pages from the shredded remains of his books lay here and there like dry leaves over the ruin of his meagre belongings. He fell to his knees, staring at the mess hopelessly. After a while he started to pick over the remains.

A few potions had escaped the destruction, as had some packets of herbs and bandages. He laid them carefully to one side as he pushed aside the smashed remains of his bed and tugged at the hidden panel behind, breathing a sigh of relief to find his most precious grimoires and his small supply of lyrium potions were still safe, together with what meagre coin he'd managed to save. He started to hastily repack the leather bag with what he could scavenge.

The grey Warden blanket was torn but he packed it nonetheless; he could sew it back together. He'd managed to put together a reasonable healing kit with spare herb supplies. The potions and lyrium he stashed separately in his belt pouches.

Then he hunted through the room for one last thing. Something very precious to him. When he failed to find it, he turned to the destruction in the clinic, overturning smashed cots, his boots crunching on broken glass.

He found it in a corner, thrown there carelessly by unknown hands. He picked up the shredded remains of the pillow, running his hands over the fading embroidery.

His mother's pillow. The only thing he had left of her. They'd ripped it apart.

He clutched it to his chest. Then, finally, the tears came, and he let them fall, unchecked.

“How dare you! Have you no shame – looting a free clinic? Were the templars not enough?”

He spun, eyes wide in alarm, caught by surprise as he shrank back, fearing attack.

Lirene stood in the doorway, her hand resting on the shattered wooden door that hung drunkenly from one hinge. Her eyes widened in surprise as she recognised him. “Healer? But they said you were dead!”

Anders' eyes were red-rimmed, his face wet and streaked with tears, his chest still heaving with sobs as he clutched the tattered remains of the pillow to his chest. He gulped, trying to choke down the tears and speak.

“Please... d-don't...I...” He couldn't get the words out past the tight choking feeling in his throat.

“What happened?” she said quietly, taking a step towards him. He shook his head, unable to speak. She crossed the room in a few hasty strides; he shrank away until his back struck the wall of the clinic and he could retreat no further.

“Don't tell anyone I was here!” he begged. She frowned, then her eyes softened.

“They're telling wild stories about you, Healer,” she said quietly. “That you blew up the Chantry. That the Champion killed you. That you were an abomination, demon-possessed.” She glanced back at the doorway, then back at Anders. “There's war on the streets of Kirkwall,” she said quietly. “Templars against mages. It's worse than when the Qunari struck. The templars came and wrecked the clinic a couple of hours ago, but they may come back.”

“It's all true,” Anders blurted out. “I did it. I destroyed the Chantry.”

“Why would you do such a thing?” asked Lirene incredulously.

He shook his head. “It seemed the only way,” he whispered.

“And the rest?”

“Do I look like an abomination?” he asked her sadly. She shook her head.

“And the Champion?”

He drew Hawke's blade and held it out; she drew in her breath sharply as she stared at the blood stains.

“My blood,” he replied simply. “He stabbed me in the back. I should have died. I still don't quite understand why I didn't, but that's not important now. I have to get out of here.” He stared down at her. “You're not yelling for help or running for the templars,” he said quietly. She shook her head. “Then... will you help me?” he whispered hopefully.

She laid her hand on his arm. “I can't begin to pretend I know what's going on or why, Healer,” she said quietly. “But there's likely not a single refugee here in Darktown who doesn't owe you some debt of thanks.” She glanced towards the door nervously. “We can't hide you forever – but I'll do what I can to help you,” she promised.

“Just help me lay low for a few hours, gather some supplies,” he replied. “There are entrances to the Deep Roads under Kirkwall. I can get out that way; they'd never think to look for me there. I can find other ways out to the surface.” He grinned wryly. “Assuming the darkspawn don't get me first.”

“No!” replied Lirene, shaking her head. “That's a death sentence! You won't last a day down there on your own!”

“I'm a Grey Warden, Lirene,” he reminded her quietly. “I have a better chance of surviving than anyone else would. And they'd never expect me to go there.”

Lirene pursed her lips, frowning. “It's not safe to stay here,” she said quietly. “Come with me. We'll talk about this when we're somewhere safe.”

Anders nodded. Tucking the pillow safely into his pack, he slung it onto his shoulder, then with cautious glances around, they made their way from the deserted clinic into the depths of Darktown.

 

“There's no love for templars down here in Darktown,” said Lirene quietly as she ladled warm stew into a wooden bowl for him and passed it over, along with a hunk of bread. Anders tore into it hungrily, only just realising how starving he was now the initial adrenaline of his escape from death had worn off. Healing himself had taken a great deal out of him, and he'd been running himself ragged ever since. He started to wolf down the food gratefully.

“Far too many apostates have been dragged out of their hovels down here for Darktowners to feel anything but disgust for them,” she continued. “The Fereldens and other refugees have experienced first hand that mages aren't the walking monsters the Chantry would have us believe, and far too many of us owe our lives to you and the others you've rescued from the Gallows over the years. You're one of ours, Healer, and we don't take kindly to the templars trampling through in their armoured boots.” She frowned. “At the same time, there's a fair few who will resent you for kicking this all off. You've turned Kirkwall on its head, and likely half of Thedas with it. What were you hoping to achieve?”

“Freedom,” he answered thickly, swallowing down a mouthful of stew. “Not for myself – for mages. Revolution. To change the world.”

“Spare me the rhetoric, Anders,” she replied acerbically. “I've heard all your arguments before. I'm not interested in your manifesto. I want to know – to understand _why_.”

“Because nothing else would work,” said Anders quietly. “I'd tried everything I could. Reasoned arguments. Rescuing mages from the Gallows. Stopping Alrik and his Tranquil Solution. We took it to the Grand Cleric and she did _nothing!_ ” He shook his head, hearing the bitterness creeping into his voice. “Meredith had requested the the right to invoke the Rite of Annulment, and the Divine granted it to her. It was always going to be just a matter of time before she invoked it. The templar atrocities against mages have been worsening; more and more mages appearing Tranquil in the Gallows on a daily basis. Something had to change.” He shook his head and bowed over the bowl. “I didn't know what else I could do,” he said in a small voice.

“All those deaths....” breathed Lirene.

“I know,” he moaned, laying aside the bowl and clutching his head in his hands. “If I could take it all back... change things somehow....” He shook his head. “The death of every mage that dies in this city tonight will be my fault. Every innocent drop of blood spilled - all of it my fault. And there's nothing I can do to stop it.”

Lirene regarded him quietly, then silently got up and left the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

 

She returned a number of hours later to find him curled up in a corner of the cellar, head pillowed on his pack, wrapped up in the patched Warden blanket. The tattered pillow was clutched to his chest, and his face was still tear-stained. The half-full bowl of stew sat, cold and half-congealed, abandoned on the floor nearby. She stood over him for several long minutes, studying his unconscious face.

The news from elsewhere in Kirkwall was disturbing. Anders dead at the champion's hand – and yet the Champion and his companions had thrown in their lot unexpectedly with the mages. Both Meredith and the First Enchanter dead. An uprising in the Alienage, the elves throwing in their lot with the mages. Rumours of Grey Wardens seen moving in Kirkwall.

And the Ferelden refugees in Darktown turning on any and all templars – and anyone who was for the Champion.

Lirene shook her head, staring down at the sleeping apostate. “What have you done?” she asked him quietly. She gathered her skirts and knelt down beside Anders, reaching out to shake his shoulder gently.

He started with a jerk, eyes flying open with a look of uncomprehending terror before he recognised her and remembered where he was. “Have they come for me?” he breathed.

“No. No-one knows you are here except me,” she told him quietly. “As far as the rest of the world knows, you're dead at the hands of Hawke. And there's civil war on the streets of Kirkwall.”

He groaned, falling back against his pack as he covered his face with a hand. “What have I done?” he murmured.

“You've started a revolution,” replied Lirene. She regarded him sombrely.

“I can't stay here,” he said quietly. “They'll work out soon enough the body in my clothes isn't really me, and you'll be in danger.”

“Hawke is fighting for the mages,” Lirene said abruptly.

“What? But – why -” He shook his head. “I don't understand,” he muttered.

“It seems he feels the mages should be protected and defended, I'd guess,” replied Lirene. “But he couldn't condone mass murder of the Chantry.”

Anders flinched at the word 'murder'. Lirene raised an eyebrow. “What? It's what you did,” she replied.

“I know,” he said quietly.

“So, are you still set on the Deep Roads?” asked Lirene, sitting back on her heels.

Anders nodded. “I don't think I have much choice,” he replied. He sat up again and began to fold up the blanket.

“There's always the docks,” she replied. “We could get you onto a ship -”

He shook his head as he stowed the blanket back in his pack. “No, too much risk someone will recognise me,” he answered.

“The smuggler's tunnels then,” she suggested. “You could get out to the Wounded Coast that way. Make your way up the coast.”

“I have my own reasons for heading for the Deep Roads,” he replied.

“I thought you wanted to live?” she asked scornfully. He reached for the cold bowl of stew. She put out her hand. “Don't – I'll fetch you a fresh bowl,” she said.

He held onto the bowl stubbornly. “Don't waste food on me,” he said, dipping his spoon into the congealed gloop. “This will do me fine.” He began to eat it, choking down the cold unappetising mess.

Lirene sighed. “I've got some supplies for you,” she replied. “It's not much, but better than nothing. I couldn't get a staff for you – it would have drawn too much attention.”

He shrugged. “I'll just have to do without,” he said quietly. He glanced up at her. “I appreciate your help, Lirene.”

“Then let me help you further,” she argued. “Don't go into the Deep Roads!”

“I'm sorry,” he said quietly. “I have to.”

“But _why?_ ”

“I can't explain,” he answered quietly. He glanced up at her. “Varric will understand. When I've gone... if you ever have the chance to tell him....”

Lirene huffed in frustration. “Why Varric?”

“It's a... dwarf thing,” he replied quietly with a small sigh. He rose to his feet. “What time is it?”

“After midnight,” replied Lirene. “Not that makes much difference out there.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder towards the stairs. “It's war out there, and they're too busy killing each other to stop just because the sun set hours ago. Besides, down here night and day are pretty much the same anyhow.” She shook her head. “If the city gates weren't already shut, there'd be a flood of refugees streaming halfway up the coast by now, I'd wager.” She regarded him sombrely. “If you weren't so set on killing yourself in the Deep Roads, it would be easy for you to slip out with them in the morning.” He shook his head stubbornly. “Very well. I'll bring down something for you to sleep on. It won't be safe for you to move from here for a while anyway.”

He nodded silently.

She brought down a thin straw-filled mattress with a pillow and a couple of blankets. She refilled the oil lantern that stood on the floor in the corner, then took away the bowl and bade him goodnight.

He lay on the mattress, head cushioned by the pillow, the blankets clutched to his chest, and stared at the ceiling in silence. No sound made it through the thick walls of the cellar. He had no idea what was happening out in Kirkwall beyond what Lirene had told him.

Hawke had thrown his lot in with the mages. Meredith and Orsino were both dead. His whole world had been turned upon its head. His back still ached with a faint ghost pain, and he could still remember how it had felt as the blade slipped between his ribs.

Even though he had been expecting pain, it had still came as a shock – the blade ice-cold in his flesh before agony blossomed in his back, stabbing through him, the blood wet and hot as it ran down his back. He had jerked a little in shock before a wave of nausea and dizziness swept over him; he had slumped sideways, falling from the crate to sprawl upon his side, the paving stones of the courtyard hard and cold against his cheek.

The sounds of Hawke's footsteps turning and walking away. He had not even stayed to watch him die.

That had hurt almost as much as the blade in his back. He remembered his vision growing dark. He was dying alone, unwanted, despised; the way he had always feared. He had wished, in those final moments, that Hawke had stayed. Cradled him in his arms. Let him die with that small comfort. But he had been denied even that.

He hadn't deserved comfort.

He rolled upon his side. He would have given anything to feel Hawke's arms about him now, his strong arms holding him safe as they lay in Hawke's bed, Hawke's voice murmuring that it would be all right and he was safe; everything would be OK.

Telling him it had all just been a bad dream.

A dream. Like the one he'd had the previous night. The one where everything had unfolded as it had today... except Hawke had spared his life. Fenris and Hawke both facing down Sebastian when he swore to kill him. And then walking through the streets, Fenris and Hawke on either side of him, marching to free the mages from the Gallows.

Except that wasn't how it went. There was to be no happy ending for him. Fenris had read his desire for death, and Hawke had nodded agreement. They felt it better to end his life and free him from the demon inside him than let him live. He had driven them to this; he had forced the two men he loved more than life itself to turn against him – for his and their sakes.

And he would have given anything in the world to take that all back now.

The tears returned, filling his eyes, hot and unbidden as they began to run down his cheeks, blinding him. “I'm sorry, my loves,” he choked in the dimly-lit room. “So, so sorry.”

Only silence answered him. Even inside his head there was silence; Justice had not stirred since the Chantry had exploded in crimson fiery ruin. The spirit remained still, even now, and not for the first time the mage wondered if perhaps the spirit was gone. Had he been deserted even by Justice?

But no, Justice had told him the joining was a melding – that they could only be separated by death. It would have taken more than Hawke's blade through his back to kill the spirit.

Maybe he had truly died there by Hawke's hand; maybe he hadn't merely fainted but actually died? Then how to explain the fact that he was here, alive, now?

“I don't understand,” he murmured, his face still wet with tears.

He stared at the far wall as his thoughts and emotions churned. It was all a nightmare; a waking, unending nightmare. He shouldn't still be alive. Everything had been planned only up to the point where he should have died. He'd never thought of what would come after; there wasn't supposed to _be_ an after.

The Deep Roads. He'd been grasping desperately at straws when he suggested it to Lirene, but it had taken on an attractiveness the more he thought on it. Maker, he hated the Deep Roads – after Corypheus he'd sworn he would never set foot in then again. Yet he knew them. No-one would think to look there for him until it was too late.

And after all, it seemed fitting somehow.

He remembered Sigrun, and wondered what she would say to the idea of his following in the footsteps of the Legion of the Dead. He didn't think they'd let him join, but perhaps the principle would still hold.

 _“It's an Orzammar thing,” said Varric, staring down at the body of the Legionnaire. “No matter your crime, if you join the Legion and vow to die fighting darkspawn, your name is cleared.”_

He wasn't planning to die, exactly; but the Deep Roads seemed to hold some faint promise of salvation.

If he survived this....

He stared at the wall in silence. Sleep was a long time in coming as he lay there, alone with his thoughts.

As he finally drifted away, he was haunted by thoughts of two pairs of eyes; one a brilliant ice blue, the other a vibrant, emerald green. _“Vishante kaffras, mage – what have you done now?”_

What indeed.


	3. Chapter 3

He sat on the straw pallet, staring at the door to the cellar.

He'd lost track of how long he'd been sitting there. The lantern had burned itself out hours ago; a small globe of magelight glowed greenish-white above his head, chasing away the shadows. He couldn't bear to lie in the dark, waiting; he'd spent a year like that, alone, in the Tower in Ferelden after his last recapture. The magelight made the cellar seem like some small pocket of the Fade.

Perhaps it was.

He didn't know what to expect when the door should finally open, but he was damned to the Black City if he would let them find him cowering in the dark.

He had played and replayed over and over in his mind the different possibilities. A troop of templar, kicking in the door; he rising to his feet, unleashing a blast of lightning before they could smite him down then steal away his magic with Silence. He wouldn't go quietly; he would fight to the death, as far as he was able. They wouldn't have a chance to make him Tranquil; he would take Hawke's blade and finish the job before he would set a foot in the Gallows. But he'd take as many of them as he could with him before he breathed his last.

Maybe it would be Hawke. Would he come to kill him, or...? He didn't dare hope for mercy. He had plunged the blade into his back and then walked away.

He _walked away_. At the end, their love had meant so little; the enormity of Anders' act of desperation wiping out any chance of forgiveness. He had expected it, but still, it hurt. Why – no, _how_ could Hawke forgive him, after what he had done – what he had used Hawke to achieve? He had forced the Champion into a war not of his choosing; he had given him no choice. To learn that even after what Anders had done, Hawke had chosen to throw his lot in with the mages – it was more than he deserved.

Maybe Hawke would arrive at the head of a phalanx of triumphant mages. Maybe he could -

No. He shook his head. There would be no triumphant reunion between himself and Hawke. No glad tears of forgiveness as Garrett took him into his arms, to the cheers of the mages for whom he had sacrificed everything to give them their freedom. He knew he would forgive Hawke anything. He did not blame Hawke for thrusting the blade between his ribs; had he not asked for it? He had been prepared to pay for his act with his life. He could picture himself lifting his hands to Garrett's face as the warrior crushed him in a tight embrace....

 _“Can you forgive me, love?” The blue eyes glistened with tears; Anders merely shook his head, his own face wet._

 _“Love, there's nothing to forgive,” he smiled, snuggling his face against Garrett's neck, pressing light kisses against the warrior's throat. “I'm alive, I'm here, and it's all over. I love you. I love you.”_

“I love you,” he whispered brokenly, tears running down his face as he stared at nothing.

No. Garrett would not come. Or if he did, it would only be to finish what he started.

 _“It has to be this way. I'm sorry.” The warrior leaned over him, the gauntleted hand on his shoulder forcing him back down as Hawke slipped the dagger from Anders' belt._

 _“I beg you, Garrett. Please.” He stared pleadingly up into the cold blue eyes. “Don't kill me. Punish me as you see fit, but not- not like this... not here....”_

 _“Close your eyes.” He placed the point of the blade against the hollow at the base of the mage's throat, and Anders' eyes widened._

 _“No. No,” he whispered. “Not this time. You want to kill me, you damned well look me in the eye as you do it, Garrett.”_

 _The warrior stared down at him, then nodded. Their eyes locked upon each other, he thrust the blade into Anders' throat. The soft brown eyes widened; he tried to speak, but all that would come was a cough. Blood ran from his lips and he weakly raised a hand towards Hawke as his life ebbed away. He held Hawke's gaze with his own even as the hand fell limp by his side and the light died in his eyes...._

“No!” cried Anders, clutching at his throat with a hand as he gasped for breath.

 _Maker, what's wrong with me?_ He lowered his hand then stared at both hands, turning them over so they rested palms-up in his lap. Each stray thought seemed to drag him down into disturbingly-real dreams. Had he somehow drifted into the Fade without realising it? He was awake – wasn't he?

He stared around himself, no longer trusting the evidence of his senses even as he reached out to press a hand against the wall. Cold stone; what else was he expecting? But even in the Fade, it would feel real. He knew the tricks of the place.

He drew Hawke's blade and stared at it, then rolled up his sleeve and set the cold blade against his forearm. He bit his lip. He'd never deliberately hurt himself before. Thoughts of the dangers of spilling mage blood sprang to mind; the temptations of blood magic.

He shook his head. He needed to know if he was dreaming or not.

Closing his eyes, he hesitated, then quickly slashed at his arm. He missed, the blade turning clumsily in his hands. Steeling himself, he slashed again, and gasped as the knife's keen edge bit into his flesh, slicing it open. Hot wet blood ran over his skin as pain flared along the cut, hot and insistent. He opened his eyes and stared down at the wound; it certainly felt real enough. He watched his own blood welling to the surface and running down his arm in a thick, sticky trickle, and felt a wave of nausea pass over him. Thrusting his knife back into his belt sheath, he pressed his hand over the cut and let the magic flow, healing himself. He grimaced; nervousness had made him clumsy, and the cut was deeper than he intended. This one might scar.

A sound at the door distracted him. His head jerked up, his heart beginning to race. Maybe someone out there.

One. Not templars then. And not Hawke.

He felt his magic stir, ripples under his skin as it answered the call of something tantalisingly familiar and seductive, and his eyes widened.

 _Fenris?_

The door burst open and the elf stood upon the threshold. Anders stared at him dully, not daring to believe or trust in the evidence of his own eyes. He couldn't be real.

“ _Mi Amatus._ ” The green eyes regarded him inscrutably. _My Beloved_. He took a step into the room and Anders pushed himself up to his feet, his heart leaping within his chest with a mixture of dread and hope. _Mi Amatus_. Then perhaps....

“Have you come to finish what Hawke started?” he whispered.

The elf stepped into the room, the door swinging closed behind him with a sound akin to a cell door slamming shut. Anders flinched. Eyes narrowing, Fenris crossed the room in a few steps, his hands rising to grip Anders' shoulders painfully hard as he slammed him back against the wall. Anders bit back a cry as the elf glared at him.

“You are dead. I saw Hawke kill you myself.”

“Then either I'm a ghost, or one of us is dreaming. Maybe both. I don't know anymore.” He was aware he was babbling, but he couldn't stop. “Are you here to kill me?”

“ _Venhedis_ , no!” exclaimed the elf. He stared into the mage's eyes, his eyes dark and glittering in the magelight glow.

“I don't understand,” murmured Anders. “You told Hawke to kill me and have done with it. You walked away as I lay dying.”

“Because I thought it was what you wanted!” whispered the elf. “You told him yourself that you had to die....” He reached up a hand to cup Anders' cheek, his touch tender despite the cruel talons of his gauntlets. “I thought you wanted to die. The release of death... did I truly misread you so badly?” Anders turned his face into the touch and whimpered, and the elf groaned, a deep, heart-felt sound. “ _Vishante kaffras_ , what have I done? Anders....”

“I don't know what's real anymore,” he whispered. “Are you? Am I? I think... I'm going mad....”

Fenris took Anders' face in both his hands. “What has happened to you, Beloved?” he breathed.

“I should be dead. I don't know what happens next. I'm not supposed to be here. Maybe I'm not. Maybe I really did die back there. Maybe that's why Justice is gone. Maybe none of this is real....”

“Anders!” The elf's hands fell back to the apostate's shoulders and he shook him hard; Anders cried out. “You are alive. You are real, as am I. Stop this!” He frowned. “What do you mean, 'Justice is gone'?”

“How did you know I was alive?” breathed Anders.

“Your hands.”

Anders' amber eyes showed only confusion. “My... hands?”

“Yes, your hands!” snapped the elf in irritation. As Anders continued to look bewildered, the elf took him firmly by the wrists and held up the mage's hands. “No scars.”

“No... huh.” Anders glanced at the fine white scars that adorned his own fingers. Suddenly the elf's grip tightened painfully upon his wrists and he winced as Fenris twisted one arm so that the long thin slash from Hawke's blade was visible – the cut healed to a thin red line, but blood still smeared across the skin, obviously freshly-spilled, the sleeve of Anders' shirt stained damply red. With one smooth movement Fenris grasped the hilt of Hawke's blade and drew it from Anders' belt sheath, staring at the blood stains. He stared at Anders through narrowed eyes.

“So. It finally comes to this. Are you truly so mad as to resort to blood magic now? Is this the meaning behind your actions – have you finally lost your mind?”

“No!” breathed Anders, an exhalation of denial. “No magic. I needed to feel... I couldn't tell if I was in a dream or lost in the Fade. Nothing seems real any more. Are _you_ real? Are you truly here? I dreamed....” He dropped his gaze and shivered. “Perhaps I _am_ losing my mind.” Then he flicked his gaze back to the elf fearfully. “Hawke... does he -”

“No. He still thinks you dead.” His gaze was sombre as he gently stroked a hand through the loose blond hair. “We burned your... body... upon a pyre,” he said quietly. “He mourns you. They all do, save Sebastian.” His lip curled briefly in a sneer.

“Don't tell them I live,” begged Anders.

“But why?” asked Fenris, stroking his thumb across Anders' cheek.

“Better I stay dead, love,” replied Anders quietly. “Better you should forget you've seen me.” He bowed his head and pressed his forehead against the elf's shoulder. “Better that I be dead even to you. It will likely enough be true soon anyway, where I'm going.”

“Where...?” Fenris pulled Anders back upright to stare into the soft brown eyes. “Wherever you go, I am going with you, mage.”

Anders shook his head. “I'm taking the Deep Roads, love,” he said quietly.

“ _Fasta vass_ , mage – _why?_ ” exclaimed Fenris. “If you truly have such a death wish, then let me grant it myself – but do not go to the Deep Roads alone!” He encircled Anders' slender waist with his arm, pulling Anders willingly into his embrace as he ran his hand through the blond hair once more then pressed his palm against the mage's breast as he stared into Anders' eyes. “I swear, if death is truly what you seek, then let me grant it – and I promise you, I will not leave you to die alone upon a cold stone floor, beloved,” he promised sadly. “I will make it as painless as I can, and I shall hold you whilst the light dies in your eyes....”

“No!” cried Anders, his eyes flying wide open in a panic. “Don't kill me – I beg of you, Fenris! I don't want to die!” He struggled uselessly against the elf's strong grip. “Please don't kill me – please!”

“Hush, beloved,” replied the elf, lifting his hand from Anders heart and instead wrapping his arm around the slender shoulders and pulling him into his embrace. “If you truly wish to live, then I will not kill you. But I cannot understand why you would take the Deep Roads – nor why you would choose to do so alone.”

Anders clung to the elf, unable to stop the tears that rolled down his cheeks.

“I have no choice,” he whispered. “It's something I have to do. My own penance.”

“Take me with you,” breathed the elf. “I cannot bear to lose you a second time.”

“I can't,” replied Anders. “I daren't. If you were to disappear... they might guess.”

Fenris pulled him away slightly and stared into the tear-streaked face. “Anders....”

The mage clung fervently to him. “Maker help me, it kills me to leave you too. I've already lost Hawke.” He swallowed thickly. “Fenris, will you do one last thing for me?”

“Anything, beloved,” replied the elf.

“Take me.”

“Take...?”

Anders pushed back from the elf and pulled off the hooded coat, the tunic following after. “Take me. Fuck me. Here and now, however you want. Give me something to carry with me.” He reached for the elf. “I need to feel you inside me,” he breathed into the elf's ear. Pressing a hand flat against the elf's collarbone, he let his magic dance across his hand and was rewarded by a quickening of the elf's breathing as the lyrium brands flared into life.

“ _Venhedis_ , mage!” gasped the elf, and he grasped Anders' arms painfully tight as he slammed him back against the wall, thrusting his leg between the mage's thighs as he claimed his mouth roughly, Anders' lips parting willingly as the elf plundered his mouth with a hard, seeking tongue before pulling the thin linen shirt off over the mage's head. He paused, feeling the stiffness of the fabric and staring at the dried bloodstains that covered the back of the shirt. He fingered the cut, staring at the blood, then glanced up at Anders. “How did you survive this?” he breathed.

“I don't know,” admitted Anders. “I must have fainted. I awoke upon the stones... I managed to heal myself. I never expected to wake again....”

The elf threw the shirt aside and pulled Anders into another firm kiss. “I am glad you did, Beloved,” he whispered.

Then the elf pulled him away from the wall and pushed him down upon the straw mattress, pinning his hands above his head with one hand whilst the other closed over the Tevinter chantry amulet the mage had worn beneath his tunic as the elf straddled the mage's hips. With one hard wrench, he tore the amulet from Anders' neck.

“First, I claim this,” he growled. “And now, I claim you.” He lowered his head and sank his teeth into Anders' throat; the mage moaned and arched his back beneath the elf's body, throwing back his head with a low cry as Fenris worried the tender flesh between his teeth. He could taste blood, and Anders whimpered as he pulled away. Anders looked up into his face, and Fenris saw a brief look of fear cross the pale features as he watched the elf lick blood from his lips.

Then Fenris reached down and cupped Anders' groin with a hand, and the mage groaned, low and needy, as he responded to the touch. Fenris sat back and began to divest himself of his armour; Anders lay back and watched, his eyes dark with desire, then he pushed himself up onto his elbows before reaching up to run a hand slowly over the lyrium lines that were branded into the elf's flesh.

Fenris paused, arching his spine with a low rumble of pleasure before pushing Anders back down against the mattress, his hand against the mage's throat. Anders swallowed convulsively, torn between fear and desire.

“Do you fear me?” asked Fenris quietly.

Guilelessly, Anders nodded. “But don't stop,” he breathed. The elf fisted a hand in the blond hair; Anders tilted his head back obediently. Fenris bent to reclaim Anders' mouth as he let the lyrium burn once more, and Anders' strangled moan was swallowed by the elf's fierce kiss as the mage arched beneath him once more, helplessly responsive to the lyrium and the answering song of magic in his veins.

The elf pushed himself away abruptly and rose to his feet to shuck the rest of his armour and clothing. Anders sat up and reached for his boots, unlacing them swiftly before reaching for the laces of his pants. Fenris crouched over him; hooking his hands over the waistband he tugged them down over Anders' slender hips, the mage lifting himself and canting his hips obligingly until the elf was able to strip them off together with the apostate's smallclothes.

Then Fenris pushed him back down again as he straddled Anders' hips once more, his own erection hard and proud. Anders reached for it but Fenris slapped his hands away before pinning them to the mattress above Anders' head. He shifted his grip, circling both the mage's wrists with one hand whilst he raked the nails of his other hand roughly down the mage's chest. Anders grunted in pain, throwing his head back with a gasp as Fenris pressed his palm against his skin and let the lyrium burn in pulses against the pale flash. Anders jerked and writhed beneath him, the hoarse sounds coming from his throat becoming urgent and needy; Fenris could feel the mage's cock twitching, trapped beneath him.

Fenris began to bite, suck and kiss his way down Anders' throat then slowly down his torso as the mage moaned his name, his hands threading into the elf's hair. Fenris caught hold of his wrists in a painfully tight grip as he slammed them down onto the mattress and sank his teeth into the slender man's hip. Anders cried out in pain, his voice tailing away into a sob.

“Tell me what you want,” growled the elf.

“You. This... _ah!_ ” He closed his eyes, tossing his head upon the pillow as the lyrium sent waves of pleasurable pain through him. “What...whatever you want... do it to me. I don't care. T-take... _ungh!_ Take me. Hurt me. _Please...._ ”

The elf sat up and stared at him in surprise. “You wish me to hurt you?”

Anders reached for him again, his hands trembling. “I don't care, I just don't want you to stop touching me,” he gasped. “Please. Give me something to feel... to know this is real, that this isn't some dream, that I'm not dreaming it... dreaming you....”

“This is no dream!” the elf said vehemently. “ _Vishante kaffras_ , mage, what has happened to you to mistrust your senses so?”

“Please!” begged Anders, sitting up as he reached for the elf again. “I need...need you....”

Fenris fisted the hair at the nape of Anders' neck firmly and drew the mage to him, kissing him firmly. “You truly want this?” Anders nodded, wordlessly. “So be it.”

He thrust the mage back down onto the mattress, flipping him over onto his stomach then raking his nails down his back. He paused, staring at the white scar between two ribs, a couple of inches below the mage's heart. “Damn you, Hawke,” he muttered, pressing two fingers against the mark. “That was not a killing blow.” He felt Anders shiver beneath him; shaking his head, he placed his palms flat against Anders' shoulder-blades and let the lyrium lines flare into life, feeling the answering flare of magic within the mage's skin calling to him until his blood sang. Anders writhed beneath his hands with a faint keen as he trailed his hands lower.

“Oil,” he murmured. “We need -”

Anders shook his head. “No. Just do it.”

“I will not indulge your desire for pain _that_ far, mage,” replied the elf acerbically. The mage muttered something into the pillow that sounded like “Andraste's knickers!” then extended a hand back, calling upon his magic. A clear oily liquid began to pool in his palm; Fenris slicked his fingers then pressed a finger against Anders' entrance. Anders moaned in longing, tilting his hips up as the elf's finger slipped inside to the first joint, the mage's body hot, tight and inviting.

Fenris thrust his finger into Anders' willing body, and the mage shuddered. “More,” he begged. Obligingly, Fenris inserted a second finger beside the first and began to thrust them slowly in and out of his lover's body, Anders pushing back into each thrust with a low cry. Fenris curled his fingers inside the mage's body, and Anders shuddered as they grazed his sweet spot, biting down upon the pillow. Fenris scissored his fingers, stretching the tight flesh, and Anders keened again.

“Please...” He seemed to be losing all capacity for coherent speech, reduced to plaintive, wordless pleading. Fenris slid a third finger into Anders' body, thrusting his hand in and out of him steadily, reaching deep into the mage as he writhed around his hand, shuddering and panting each time Fenris' fingers curled back just so and grazed his most sensitive place again, again and again until Anders was helpless and incoherent beneath him. Fenris drank in the sight of him, sweaty, naked and debauched, utterly surrendering himself to anything Fenris might choose to do to him, and he felt his own lust coiling hot and heavy in his groin. He thrust his whole hand deep into Anders' body, curling his fingers into a fist and pounding steadily into the mage, then withdrew it to slick his cock with more oil.

Anders cried out in wordless protest as Fenris' fingers pulled from his body, then fell silent as the elf leaned forward on one hand and with the other pushed the head of his cock against Anders' entrance. Anders rocked back towards him, and abruptly, roughly, Fenris braced himself with a hand digging into Anders' shoulder as he forced himself into Anders with one hard thrust.

Anders screamed into the pillow at the sudden intrusion, the fingers stretching him moments before only barely preparing him for the burn of being filled so completely and unexpectedly. Fenris drew back a little then thrust into him again, deeper, then began to rhythmically pound into him as he sank his teeth into Anders' shoulder. Anders shuddered but pushed back against the elf, rocking his hips back to meet each thrust as the elf took him roughly, the mage exhaling a ragged cry with each thrust as Fenris pounded him painfully hard into the mattress.

It was not gentle. It was not lovemaking. It was hunger, need, an urgent thrusting into a body that craved pain, a release; a blind rutting to drive out memory. When Anders came, his cry sounded more like a scream of agony than the welcoming of release; Fenris' own climax followed shortly after as the mage lay exhausted beneath him, utterly undone. The elf was not surprised when Anders began to shake shortly after; great, heart-rending sobs racking his thin frame as he curled in upon himself. Fenris curled about him and held him close, stroking the sweat-damp hair as he breathed, “I love you,” over and over until eventually Anders quietened and turned to nestle against his chest, breathing slowly steadying until it had reached the calm, steady cadence of the sleeper. Fenris followed him down into sleep soon after.

In the morning, Fenris was unsurprised to find himself alone, the cellar empty of both Anders and his few belongings. The Tevinter chantry amulet lay upon the pillow beside his head.

When the elf emerged a short while later into the cool morning air outside Lirene's shop, the amulet hung from his belt. A red silk sash adorned his wrist. The dried marks of tears still stained his cheeks, though his look was haughty and proud.

Ignoring the curious stares, Fenris made his way back towards Hightown.


	4. Chapter Three

He left Fenris sleeping. He deliberately did not look back; if he had, he feared he might never be able to leave. He dressed silently, gathered his few belongings, and leaving the amulet upon the pillow he left silently.

“You're really going then.”

He glanced up as he swung the pack onto his shoulder; Lirene stood leaning a hip against the counter, watching him quietly, her fingers toying with a cloth-wrapped bundle. He nodded, and she abruptly straightened, shoving the bundle towards him.

“You'll need these; supplies for your journey. It's not much, but it'll maybe keep you going a while.”

Anders nodded, taking the bundle and stowing it carefully in his pack. Lirene pulled out a pair of long-bladed daggers in a back harness and slid them across the table to him. “There's no point giving you a sword; you'd likely do yourself a mischief with it,” she remarked drily; he smiled ruefully. “But a pair of knives may come in useful. Use them as you wish; sell 'em for more coin if you can't.”

Anders eyed them askance. “I'm not sure that wearing them wouldn't be asking for trouble,” he remarked. “I have no idea how to fight with knives. I've always been a healer.”

Lirene shrugged. “Still, they may be of use. I didn't dare try to find you a staff; in some parts of the city, simply holding one is a death sentence right now. There's still war on the streets; the templars hold about a third of the city, and the front lines are changing on an hourly basis. Darktown belongs to the mages and the Fereldens for now, but there's no telling how long that will last.”

“Maybe I'll find something in the Deep Roads,” replied Anders. “Maybe some unfortunate who perished down there.” He shrugged, pulling on the knife harness before pulling the pack onto his shoulder.

“Will you ever come back, do you think?” asked Lirene, her eyes softening. Anders shook his head.

“I think it best for everyone if Anders remains dead,” he said quietly. Lirene regarded him sadly, then held out her arms and he stepped into her embrace, holding her close for a moment.

“Maker protect you and watch over you, Healer,” she murmured.

“I owe you so much, Lirene,” he breathed quietly. “Thank you so much for everything you've done for me these past five years. I can never repay you.”

“Go,” she sniffed, pushing him from her sadly. “Live. That'll be thanks enough for me. Send word when – if – you can.”

He nodded, stepping back. He raised a hand in farewell, then slowly left the shop, his footsteps and his heart heavy.

He tugged the hood up over his loose blond hair as he strode away, his feet taking him back down the old, familiar roads towards the deeper parts of Darktown. As he walked, he became aware of people emerging from their homes and hovels despite the early hour; voices whispering, words drifting to his ears as he strode on.

“The Healer!” “But... I heard he was dead?” “A ghost walks amongst us!” “The Healer lives?”

Pulling the hood lower, he kept to the side streets and alleyways as far as possible but still, calls and whispers followed him.

“Anders... Anders lives?... look, 'tis the Healer's ghost come to walk amongst us...”

 _I'm a ghost now?_ He supposed in a way, he was. Certainly his old life, his recent existance, had come to an end, bled out onto the cobblestones – perhaps Justice with it. He had searched deep inside several times now, but he could find no trace of the spirit he had shared a mind with for over six years. It was as though Justice had never been there; not even an echo. That disturbed him more than he thought it should; something just didn't feel right inside – as though in leaving, dying, whatever Justice had done, the spirit had somehow taken a part of Anders with him; but he was at a loss to explain just what was missing.

He was drawing closer to the entrance to the Deep Roads; the path Varric's brother Bartrand had led them all down so long ago. He had never dreamed he might one day walk this path alone. He paused on the broad paved terrace before the entrance, staring at the cracked paving stones.

He had stood here as Leandra pleaded with Hawke not to take Carver into the Deep Roads. Carver had insisted upon going anyway. Anders stared at the entrance, dark and forbidding, remembering the hopeless look of dread upon Carver's face at the moment he had realised he was dying of the Blight. The trusting look of hope in Hawke's eyes when Anders had suggested the Grey Wardens.

Other memories. A keep, far beneath the ground; a shared moment between two Wardens.

_“Do you ever think about it? What's to come?” asked Carver._

_“I try not to,” replied Anders. “Apostates aren't exactly known for their longevity. And even without the Calling, a Warden's lot wouldn't be likely to be long anyway. Fighting darkspawn isn't exactly conducive to a long life. Most Wardens don't survive long enough to hear their Call.”_

_A shared look; sympathy flashing between them both; understanding of a shared fate. A moment of brotherhood. He'd missed that since leaving Vigil's Keep._

He bowed his head, lost in memories. So many memories. Seven years since he at last made his successful escape from the Circle, and he'd packed more living into those years than many men twice his age.

He lifted his head and stared back the way he had come. Kirkwall. His home. He had thought of Vigil's Keep as home once, too; he had been forced to leave there, much as here, solely by his own actions.

Both times stemming from having taken Justice into himself. Becoming an abomination.

And yet, if he were to be somehow taken back there, back to that day at the Keep... could he honestly say he wouldn't make the same choice? In many ways, it had not been a choice. Had Rolan not pursued and harassed him....

_"He just went crazy. His eyes were glowing... His bloody skin cracked open and it was like he was on fire inside. Just kept raving... something about injustice, a revolution. Thought I was going to have to put the blighter down like a mad dog, then he just collapsed."_

_"Damned mages."_

_He opened his eyes, struggling to stand. Everything felt wrong; the light too bright and yellow (but the sunshine has always been that colour) too harsh, the shadows all wrong (but we're no longer in the Fade), nose assaulted by stenches and revolting smells (horses in the stables, fresh bread baking, stale ale spilled last night in the great hall, the midden heap out back – the smell of any Keep throughout the Free Marches), his ears assailed by sounds (fellow Grey Wardens, the smith's hammer, the rumble of cartwheels, life, life, all around us)._

_One voice stands out. Rolan, the former templar turned Grey Warden... but he wears silverite, not blue and grey; the silver griffin on his chest plate stands in contrast with the steel-grey sword-of-flames on his companion's armour. He has betrayed me (us) as I (we) knew he would. Once a templar, always a templar._

_I (we) had no choice. Rolan had come for me (us). Maleficar or no, the badge of the Grey Wardens would be no protection for me (us) any longer. I (we) had no choice._

_We had to meld. It was my only chance to live._

He shuddered, pulling himself back from old memories. Justice had been so close, so vibrant, so _present_ in his mind that day, right up to that moment when Rolan had confronted them. And then there had been that horrible blank time in which he knew nothing before awakening....

No. He _did_ remember. He just didn't want to. Didn't want to remember the white-hot rage that had burned within him/them as Rolan thrust the sword into his chest and he/they laughed back at him. Tore the blade from his hands. Then ripped him apart bodily. Blood over this/heir face and up his/their arms, covering their hands; the air thick with the coppery tang of blood. Blood in their mouth. He could still remember the taste; blood laced with the lyrium the templar had imbibed before confronting them.

And _suddenly I'm alone, standing in a burning forest, with the bodies of templars and wardens at my feet. So many, and I didn't even know they were there. Didn't even know I had killed them, but the evidence is all around me. Not the aftermath of a battle as I've known it, but a bloody abattoir of rent limbs and torn and eaten flesh.  
_

He reeled, clutching his head. “No... _NO!_ ” he screamed, desperately trying to drive the memories from his mind – in vain, all in vain. “Where is your justice now?” he screamed at the stones. “Answer me that, Maker! Damn you! Is this my penance? Is this my punishment?”

Only the echoes of his own voice answered him. “Where is _my_ justice?” he whispered, looking around himself hopelessly. “Am I going mad?”

He heard a foot scrape a stone behind him, on the path leading back towards Darktown; he spun on his heel in time to see a dark figure rise from behind a stone. It stood in the shadows, obscured; he was aware of a pale face framed with dark hair, large green eyes that gleamed softly with tears in the faint light that filtered down from high above. Dark grey lines marked the heart-shaped face.

“Merrill?” he murmured, taking a step towards her. The elf shook her head sadly.

“ _Dareth shiral, lethallin. Lath sulevin, lath araval ena._ ”* She turned and fled, her bare feet making no sound upon the cracked stones.

Anders watched her until his eyes could no longer pick out her slender figure from the dark shadows, and then he turned slowly back towards the entrance to the Deep Roads.

Calling up a small globe of magelight, he carefully made his way in.

 

* * *

  
* ” _Safe journey, my dear friend. Be certain in need, and the path will emerge._ ”

With acknowledgement to Jennifer Hepler for the story of Anders' and Justice's joining and immediate aftermath.


	5. Chapter 5

The entrance had been boarded up, but most of the boards had come loose, rotting and crumbling – or outright stolen by Darktowners in search of firewood. The boards had only been a perfunctory effort to keep people out; only the most foolhardy would venture down in search of the Deep Roads – or the most desperate. Anders tugged a board aside, stepping over the threshold and making his way into the tunnel beyond.

The magelight lit up the tunnel with a faint greenish-silvery light, reflecting off specks of mica in the rock walls. Anders let his feet follow the path, memory guiding him onwards as he lost himself in thoughts. Ghosts of memory walked beside him; recollections of a younger Hawke, more brash and full of self-confident bravado. Carver, cocky and mouthy as ever. Varric walking beside his brother, arguing good-naturedly over how best to go about things. Fenris glowering whenever he thought someone was looking in his direction,

He bowed his head, trailing one hand against the stone wall as he followed the path downwards. He knew he had little to fear here, except perhaps from any smugglers who might be using nearby tunnels to store their contraband – but it was obvious from the state of the boards at the entrance that this particular path hadn't been used in some time. Perhaps not since Hawke and Varric had brought the last of the demon's hoard to the surface so many years ago. It would take two weeks to get to the Deep Roads – maybe a little less, as he was only one man travelling alone. Plenty of time for silent contemplation.

He had much to think about. And at least down here he didn't have to worry about templar patrols, the demands of the revolution – or Hawke.

He shook his head. No. Those thoughts were too painful, the wound still too new, too raw. He shied away from the memories, feeling his throat tightening, tears threatening to rise and spill uncontrollably. No, don't think about it.

Not yet.

He felt alone in a way he hadn't done in over seven years. Not since the templars had thrown him into solitary confinement for a year after his last-but-one escape attempt. There had been the Grey Wardens after his last escape, and then there was always Justice.

He'd grown used to the presence in his mind; even when he was silent, Justice was, at least, always there. He'd grown used to having a second voice there, to support his decisions, help him feel he'd made the right choice, or be a voice of reason when he'd made the wrong one. Just simply having someone else there, another opinion or viewpoint – he hadn't realised just how much he'd taken it for granted until suddenly, it was gone. He was gone.

He realised slowly that he was grieving for Justice, in his own way – for Justice, and a whole way of life he'd grown to become accustomed to. People he'd grown used to. A home. Friends. Loved ones. His footsteps faltered as tears threatened to overwhelm him again; shaking his head angrily, he brushed his eyes roughly with the heel of his palm then stamped on, refusing to give in to the torrent of feelings raging inside.

It was over. Done with. His life in Kirkwall was over with and there was no going back. There was nothing to go back to.

 

The journey was long and slow; it took him the full two weeks to reach the rockfall that had thwarted Bartrand on their first trip into the Deep Roads. He'd started talking to himself by the end of the fourth day. He was self-conscious the first few times he'd caught himself doing it, but the sound of his own voice was comforting. It made the silence less oppressive.

“Still there, I see,” he told the rocks, kicking at a fallen boulder. “Seen any darkspawn lately? No, I don't suppose you have. I don't think they come up this close to the surface.” He glanced around the cavern; it was much as he remembered. Hopefully there hadn't been any further cave-ins and the path they'd found to escape the Deep Roads would still be there.

It took a little hunting around; he hadn't been down this way in several years, and one part of the Deep Roads looked much like another. Dwarven thaigs didn't vary much in appearance, and it was all too easy to lose one's bearings in the vast, dark halls and passageways. Not for the first time he wondered at what the dwarves must have been thinking when they built something that looked more as though it were scaled for giants than short, stocky dwarves. Finally he found a pillar carved with dwarven runes that looked familiar. Trailing his fingers over the deep cuts in the stone, he squeezed past a fallen boulder that hadn't been there the last time they'd come down this way. It was a tight squeeze, even for his sparse frame; Fenris would have had a hard time getting past it, and Hawke would have had no chance, even without his armour. If anyone had pursued him thus far, he was fairly confident they wouldn't be able to follow him further. He had to remove his pack and drag it after himself, but once the other side of the boulder the path opened out.

He glanced around the hallway, the glowing magelight casting it in a dim silvery light. It wasn't bright enough to illuminate the whole vast hall, but it was enough to pick his way past fallen stones and uneven paving stones. He paused to pull out the old Grey Warden maps that Hawke had sought him for so many years ago. He'd quietly taken them back after the last of the treasure had been brought to the surface; he hadn't known at the time that he would have a further use for them, but cautious prudence had prompted him to quietly retrieve them from Hawke's study when he came across them a few months afterwards. He was glad now that he had.

There was a dwarven way-station not far from this point; if it were still intact and hadn't fallen to either darkspawn or a cave-in, it would be a suitable place to hole up for the night. He could perhaps wedge the door closed, maybe even risk lighting a small fire. He'd managed to gather some deep mushrooms on his journey down here, and there were occasional rats round here. He'd eked out his meagre rations as far as possible, but he was now getting down to a pouch of grains and what he could hunt or scavenge. Not for the first time he was glad for his Grey Warden training; one could survive on what one found down in the Deep Roads – if you knew where to look and weren't too fussy.

He was fortunate; the way-station was still there, and in much the same state as when last he'd found it. The ancient stone door still stood, and not for the first time he found himself marvelling at the ancient dwarven skill with stone that they could build such things that were still functional several hundred years later. He pushed the door open and cautiously went inside, pooling mana in his hand as he readied a fireball spell just in case.

It wasn't needed however; the way-station was empty, the dusty remains of their last campfire still lying in the grate of the main room, a stack of firewood still near at hand. There was no trace of the strange, filthy oily substance that gradually accumulated wherever the darkspawn lingered, and the well was untainted. He went back and wedged the door closed with a fallen rock, then set about building a fire. He felt a little more relaxed once the campfire was ablaze and the old stone room was lit up by its cheery glow. He shook out his bedroll, then set about cooking himself a small meal. Travelling the Deep Roads alone was a nervewracking experience, but the prospect of a warm meal and a safe place to relax and sleep was comforting. He dug out the maps again and pored over them as he waited for the thin gruel to cook. There was a thaig about three days' journey from here, but that would involve going deeper into the Deep Roads. If he were down here on a regular expedition with Hawke and the others, he knew they would have been making straight for the thaig and the most likely prospects of treasure, but that wasn't the purpose of this trip. He was down here because no-one was likely to be foolish enough to follow him; and it was a chance to be completely alone with his thoughts.

He was still no nearer towards coming to peace with himself over what he had done – or what Hawke had done; what he, Anders, had driven Hawke to do. His sleep each night was tormented by visions of what he'd seen and done; the Chantry's destruction, his mind conjuring up visions of the likely last moments of Elthina, the other clerics and priests. He dreamed of those last moments with Hawke; he frequently woke with a scream after nightmares of Hawke coming after him again.

There were other dreams; bittersweet dreams of gentler, loving times with Hawke and Fenris. He woke from those in tears, mourning the loss of everything he'd held most dear. Dreams of pleasanter times. He wondered what Isabela, Varric and Merrill were doing. Fenris had said they all mourned his death except for Sebastian – but he would have taken even a lecture on the Chant of Light from the Starkhaven prince right now. Another person to talk to beside his own echo and the thoughts in his head.

He closed his eyes and reached inside himself once more for Justice – for any sign or trace that the spirit were still with him.

“Justice? Please answer me. Please be there.”

There was no answer; the only voice inside his head was his own.

“I miss you. Please...answer me. Tell me you're still there.”

The answering silence was oppressive and lonely. He lowered his head into his hands. He was completely and utterly alone.

He lowered his hands and stared at them. What good was magic when all he craved was a friendly voice? He could heal any injury but not ease the pain in his own heart.

He ate the thin gruel in silence, then rinsed out the cooking pot and his bowl before stowing them back in his pack. Drawing one of the long-bladed knives Lirene had given him, he carved a couple of glyphs into the dirt just inside the door, then set the ward before retreating back to his bedroll. There was no point in staying up; his own thoughts were pretty dismal company.

He curled up in his blanket, the knife close to hand, and left the fire to burn itself out. He sank gratefully into sleep.

 

The chime was soft and rang only in his mind – but with the pure clear clarity of a bell, and the surge of magic it accompanied woke him instantly. Someone or something was pushing steadily at the door of the way-station, forcing back the stone door. The moment he awoke, he recognised the unclean scratching in the back of his head. Darkspawn.

Anders was on his feet in an instant, the long knife grasped in his right hand whilst with his left he drew upon his magic and readied a lightning spell. He moved on silent feet back out of the line of sight of the doorway and waited.

As the incursor crossed the second glyph, it abruptly went off, and Anders heard a hiss of alarm followed by a yammering. Anders leapt out of his hiding place, letting rip with the lightning bolt to flash-fry the hurlock that was caught by the paralysis spell. Anders swore to himself as the creature rocked, held in place by the glyph, then lunged forward, trying to swipe at him with the rusty sword it clutched in one taloned hand. He stayed back out of its reach and cast a fireball spell; it detonated against the hurlock's chest, filling the air with the sickening stench of burning flesh. The hurlock shrieked in agony, clashing its sharp pointed teeth in agony as its arms flailed. Anders gestured and the hurlock was encased in ice. Anders kicked it square in the midriff and it shattered into frozen chunks across the ground.

Anders drew back, his heart racing, as he stared around. Hurlocks didn't usually hunt singly but in small packs; it was unlikely this one was alone. Hastily, he returned to the other room and packed his bedroll, swinging the backpack up onto his shoulder again. Time to move on; he didn't fancy hanging around here now he knew there were darkspawn nearby. The unpleasant scratching sensation in the back of his mind had diminished a little, but not enough for comfort.

He lingered by the door, listening and feeling for trouble for several long minutes before daring to emerge from the way-station. He would have given a great deal at that moment to have backup from someone else. Or his staff. Actually, his staff would have gone a long way towards reassuring him right now; he knew what he was doing with a staff. The knife wasn't doing a great deal to reassure him right now; he was half-afraid he'd end up stabbing himself with it if he had to actually use it as a weapon.

There was no sign of the other hurlocks he knew must be around here somewhere; he set off hurriedly just in case they came looking for their frozen companion. Pulling out the maps from his coat, he cast a small ball of magelight onto the tip of his knife – just enough to illuminate the map as he strode hurriedly, one eye on the road ahead as he hastily scanned the maps. He was far outside the outer limits of Kirkwall, but he wasn't sure exactly where the nearest road to the surface would bring him out. He'd been travelling roughly south, so right now he was somewhere under the sea – possibly under the edge of the Ferelden coast.

He wasn't sure Ferelden was necessarily a good place to be heading back to, but at least it was in the opposite direction to Starkhaven. He was fairly certain that if Hawke had thrown in his lot with the mages, Sebastian wouldn't have taken kindly to the turn of events, and with the Kirkwall Chantry destroyed there would be nothing keeping him from returning to Starkhaven and reclaiming his throne. Anders didn't want to risk running into the army the Starkhaven Prince would no doubt raise to march upon Kirkwall to put down the mages' uprising and avenge the Chantry.

So Ferelden it would have to be. At least it was somewhere familiar. Maybe he would make his way to Highever and see if he could take ship somewhere. Somewhere with a large city he could disappear into. Disappearing would be good.

From what he could tell from the maps, there should be an exit up to the surface a couple of days' walk further south. He hefted his pack thoughtfully; it was a lot lighter now. But if he kept his eyes open for more deep mushrooms, he could probably make his dwindling rations last long enough to get up to the surface. There'd be better scavenging for food once he got to the surface, and hopefully a village or something where he could get better food; maybe an inn where he could spend the night in a real bed. He stroked his chin thoughtfully; shaving had been the last thing on his mind whilst fleeing into the Deep Roads, and he was now sporting a moderately respectable beard. He disliked not being clean-shaven – or at worst, slightly stubbled - but he knew it would make him less recognisable. Right now though, he suspected it made him look less than reputable – but perhaps looking like some scruffy vagrant (and, he thought ruefully, likely smelling like one by now) would mean people would pay him less heed as he passed through. Lirene had said refugees were trying to get out of Kirkwall thanks to the fighting between templars and the mages; he should hopefully be able to blend in with the rest of them – just one more homeless refugee from Kirkwall's troubles.

He strode on swiftly, eyes and ears alert for the sounds and signs of more darkspawn. Just two more days down here. He could handle two more days. Couldn't he?


	6. Chapter 6

One day, things would go right for him.

Maybe.

Sadly, it seemed that day was not to be this day.

He stared around him and sighed. The staff in his hands felt strange and alien, but it was better than no staff and he'd been grateful of it when he accidentally ran into this latest pack of deep stalkers. He'd found it near the rotting remains of some poor unfortunate about four hallways back. From the looks of the hurlock carcasses around the remains, whoever he was had put up a valiant defence but had been overcome by sheer weight of numbers, he guessed. He'd been clad in fairly nondescript robes; not a Grey Warden, from what he could tell. He had wondered who he had been and what he'd been doing alone down in the Deep Roads.

The abandoned pack nearby had held few clues; from the freshness of the rations, he didn't think he'd been down here long. Anders had taken what seemed unspoiled and still good, together with some spare clothing; whoever the mage was, he had been of a similar size to Anders. He'd found an interesting grimoire, some potions and a pouch of silver in the backpack. With an apologetic shrug, he'd appropriated them; their former owner had no further use for them, after all. Still, he felt a little guilty as he'd looted the dead man's belongings.

The staff had lain just beyond the reach of the cold stiff fingers. He had felt an odd, strange tingling in his hand as he had picked it up, but it wore off swiftly, and the staff itself seemed, at least upon the surface, to be unremarkable. It was crafted from some strange black wood he was unfamiliar with. The blade at its foot was leaf-shaped and crafted from no metal he'd ever seen before; it was black, with a subtle ripple effect from where the metal had been folded countless times. The centre of the shaft was wound with black cord, and the staff was topped by a round, clear globe of polished quartz enclosed in tarnished silver thorned stems, like those of a rose, and the shaft immediately below the crystal was inlaid with lyrium in the form of a rose design.

The staff was easy enough to use; it was balanced just perfectly for those fancy twirls and flourishes he just couldn't resist even in the most heated and hectic battles. It seemed to channel his magic almost... _eagerly_ ; at least, that was the only way he could find to describe it. As his power flared through his body and flowed through the staff, the lyrium roses glowed, as did the crystal, seeming to amplify the effect of his spells. He'd had cause to be very glad of it very soon after finding it, as he'd run almost immediately into a group of five hurlocks. Then three genlocks. Then there'd been that shrieker.

After that, he had the misfortune to run into wave after wave of darkspawn. It were as though the Deep Roads were throwing everything at him he'd been fortunate to avoid in the first couple of weeks on the way in. He was running on a lack of sleep, close to empty, exhausted and only keeping going by relying on his dwindling supply of lyrium potions.

He stared around himself at the latest dispatched pack of deep stalkers and groaned as he felt the tell-tale tickling and scratching in the back of his skull. He backed away towards the passageway that his maps told him should lead to the surface, etching glyphs into the dirt as he went. As the next wave of deep stalkers emerged from the darkness and skulked towards him, he turned and began to sprint up the passage. The skittering sound of claws on rock told him they were following; at the first curve in the passage, he turned and aimed a blast of pure raw magic back towards the closest glyph, and stayed only long enough to see the chain reaction of explosions start to flow back towards the deep stalkers. Then he fled.

He stumbled as suddenly there was a deep rumble and the ground beneath his feet heaved briefly. Glancing back, he saw with alarm that the roof of the passageway was starting to crumble in. His eyes widening, he turned and fled, desperately trying to outrace the cave-in before he could be entombed together with the darkspawn he'd just a little too effectively decimated. He breathed a brief but fervent prayer to the Maker that the surface was close.

He stumbled out into the late afternoon sunshine, coughing and choking as clouds of dust billowed out around him and the cave roof behind him collapsed inwards, spewing out rocks and small boulders as he staggered away from the depression in the hillside where once there had gaped a cave mouth. He turned and stared wide-eyed at the destruction it seemed his spells had wrought as he leaned upon his staff and tried to catch his breath, still coughing. His clothes, possessions, everything about him – everything was covered in fine, grey-brown dust.

But he'd done it. He'd made it through the Deep Roads alone – and escaped with his life.

Now if only he knew just where, exactly he was, he would be so much happier.

 

 

He was feeling marginally happier a couple of hours later. He'd managed to find a stream to wash in, changed into some of the spare clothing he'd found, and managed to catch and kill a rabbit with a handy small lightning bolt. A bit of foraging yielded up some reasonable wild greens and herbs to cook with it, and the resulting stew by a warm fire in a sheltered spot went a long way towards making him feel happier with the world – or at least, the small part of the world he happened to be inhabiting right at that moment. He'd washed his other clothes in the stream, and they now hung drying on a nearby bush.

He still had no idea where he was. He knew it was somewhere on the coast, but he didn't seem to have emerged anywhere near any form of settlement or town. But at least with a full belly and some sleep without the fear of lurking darkspawn he would hopefully be in a better position to carry on come the morning.

He reached for his pack and pulled out the grimoire that had belonged to the dead mage, drawing the black staff closer. He ran a hand over its smooth haft absently as he opened the book and began to leaf through it.

The style of the book was familiar to him; it reminded him a lot of the grimoires written and used in the Ferelden Circle. Most of the spells and potions were just variations of those in his own grimoire, but there were some interesting notes on magically augmented herbal preparations that piqued his curiosity. He could find no clue as to the identity of the grimoire's former owner however; some hapless apostate who had outrun the templars only to come to grief in the Deep Roads. He idly wondered if perhaps it had been someone he had known whilst in the Circle. He rather hoped not.

The evening was drawing on, and the air was starting to turn chill; it was coming on to autumn, and the wind was cold. Anders shifted a little closer to the fire as he laid out his bedroll and snuggled under the blankets. He'd set wards around the sheltered hollow where he'd set up camp; for once he felt he could probably relax enough to sleep properly, though it still wouldn't be as restful as a bed in an inn. Still, he was grateful for what he could get.

He lay on his back under the stars, staring up at the night sky. He was quietly comforted to think that those same familiar constellations also shone over Hawke and Fenris, wherever they may be. He fell asleep whilst musing over what they might be doing right at that moment.

 

It turned out he'd been closer than he thought to civilisation; two hours' walking the next morning brought him to a village on the road to Highever. To his surprise, the staff slung upon his back occasioned no more than the occasional curious glance; he guessed they didn't see templars much in the area, and the news of the Chantry's destruction in Kirkwall obviously hadn't reached here yet. Cautious inquiries garnered the information that he was only half a day's ride from Highever; he stayed in the village long enough to pick up some apples, bread and cheese before continuing on his way, cheered by the thought he might spend that coming night in a real bed for the first time in nearly three weeks.

It took him most of the day, but towards dusk he was rewarded by the sight of the walls of Highever as they came into view. He managed to reach the city just before the great gates closed for the night; he was surprised that here, again, the staff upon his back occasioned no more than the odd curious glance, and he began to wonder in earnest just what news of the mages' uprising had reached Ferelden. Still, he seemed to blend in with the other newcomers to the city; the guards on the gate gave him no more than a cursory glance as he made his way into the city.

He instinctively made his way towards the harbour quarter; he had spent long enough on the run before Kirkwall to learn that the less salubrious inns were to be found in such places – the sort of establishments where an apostate mage on the run could keep his head down and avoid the eyes of those who might be inclined to cause him trouble. It didn't take him long to find just such a place. The faded painted sign outside proclaimed it to be the Sea Goat, and the reek that hit him when he pushed open the door made him wonder if the goat of the same name had perhaps been drowned and then served up in whatever revolting stew appeared to be being served that evening.

Still, he wasn't here for the inn's dubious culinary delights; as long as the bed were reasonably comfortable and infested with a minimum of insect life then he was content to put up with the smell. He certainly couldn't imagine any templar wanting to linger here for longer than was absolutely necessary, which made the place just perfect as far as Anders was concerned. After inquiring behind the bar about a room and laying down some silver, he ordered a pint of the local watered-down piss they called beer and retreated with it to a relatively quiet table at the back near the fire. He sat and nursed the beer, glad for the warmth of the inn and the noise of voices other than his own around him.

“Well, you're a sight for sore eyes, Blondie, and no mistake!” drawled a familiar voice. Anders jumped, splashing beer across the surface of the grimy wooden table as he pushed himself back, glancing up. His eyes went wide as he took in the female figure standing before him, one hand on her hip, her amber eyes dancing as she grinned down at him.

“Hello, Anders,” grinned Isabela.


	7. Chapter 7

Fenris didn't need to look at Hawke to know he was brooding again.

The elf stood slightly behind and to one side of the high-backed wooden chair, one hand resting casually on the chair-back. He stared down from the dais at the group of nobles with a faint air of bored disdain.

Hawke had been wrangling the nobles most of the morning, dealing with their complaints, much as he had the previous day, the day before that, and pretty much ever since the last of the templars had been driven out of Kirkwall. Hawke had been unequivocally and unanimously elevated to the position of Viscount, and since then he'd been preoccupied with politics.

In the four months since the uprising, Hawke had lost his cheerful demeanour; it seemed a part of him had died with the apostate. He dressed all in black, took his meals alone, and he seemed to be eternally under a black cloud, his blue eyes dark, his mood sombre.

The companions had all gradually deserted him. Isabela had disappeared less than a day after Anders' death, taking ship on the first boat out of Kirkwall. Sebastian had departed soon afterwards when it became clear that Hawke sought not merely to protect the mages but to drive the Chantry clean out of the city. Merrill had left with most of the elves in the Alienage to the Maker only knows where. Varric had been increasingly making himself unavailable, busy with Guild matters. Aveline had departed with Donnic back to Lothering.

Only Fenris had remained, though the elf himself could not have said why he stayed. Perhaps because he had nowhere else to go, and Kirkwall was the closest thing he had to a home. And because Hawke asked him to.

Abruptly Hawke shoved himself to his feet. “Enough!” he growled, instantly silencing the two nobles who had been squabbling over some minor bone of contention; Fenris couldn't even remember what it was now, his attention having drifted shortly after it had begun. He didn't know why Hawke bothered to bring him along to these audience sessions; the warrior said the elf's presence intimidated the nobles, but Fenris couldn't see the point – Hawke was intimidating enough just by his own presence alone. The eternal scowl upon his face put off all but the most determined petitioners.

“This audience is at an end. Return tomorrow,” Hawke announced, then strode from the room. Fenris strode after him, unable to contain a small smirk as the nobles began to clamour in consternation over being so summarily dismissed like fishwives in a market.

“Andraste's tits, they sicken me – all those bloody idiots babbling, day after day,” growled Hawke as he strode through the corridors of the Viscount's Palace. Fenris jogged briefly to keep up then fell into stride beside the warrior.

“I fail to see why you require me at such sessions,” remarked Fenris. “You do not need me to keep them in line.”

“Maybe I want to share the misery,” retorted Hawke; Fenris darted him a sidelong glance, but there was no smile upon Hawke's face.

“If you have no further need of me...” began Fenris; Hawke came to a halt and glanced at the elf, who also halted and turned to him, lifting an eyebrow questioningly.

“Stay,” asked Hawke quietly. “Please. Come with me.”

Fenris inclined his head. “As you wish. Where are we going?”

“I have something I want to show you,” replied Hawke, leading them on again.

They left the Palace, Hawke taking the lead towards his own estate. Fenris followed, curious, as Hawke led him down to the cellars of the house, then his eyes widened slightly as he realised where Hawke was taking him.

Hawke was silent the entire time it took them to traverse the length of the secret passage down to Darktown; not for the first time, Fenris found himself wondering just how and why the Amells had felt the need to build such a passageway.

They emerged into a small alley in Darktown, not far from Anders' old clinic. Fenris frowned slightly; he had not been back here since Anders left. He wondered at Hawke's reasons for bringing him down here.

“I've been coming down here once a week for a while now,” said Hawke as he led Fenris towards the clinic. “You'll see there have been a few changes.”

“I don't -” began Fenris, then fell silent as they emerged around the corner.

The clinic was still there, and there was a large throng of people coming and going. Two mages stood outside, and people had formed orderly queues. As Fenris watched, the two mages talked to each person in the queue before them. Some they merely spoke to briefly then sent away, others were motioned to one side or the other, and some were sent directly into the clinic. Fenris glanced about him with interest as Hawke led him directly to the clinic itself. The mages both nodded to Hawke as he passed; he nodded back to them in answer.

The clinic seemed larger, more sturdily built. “I had it extended and renovated,” explained Hawke with a wave of his hand. “The old building was practically falling down and too small. I wanted to build somewhere bigger and better, but Lirene asked that we keep the old site. So we did what we could with it.” He pushed open the doors, and Fenris soon saw that the improvements weren't just to the outside of the building.

Inside, the room was large, airy and spacious, the walls clean, the floor covered in smooth stone tiles which Fenris could immediately see were far easier to keep clean than the old dirt floor. Rows of neat, tidy cots lined the room, with two examination areas to one side behind a curtained-off area. There were shelves of potions, herbs and other ingredients, laid out neatly with small labels. There were preparation benches, and a mage was showing her apprentice how to prepare a potion as they entered, whilst another mage was bent over a desk, filling in a ledger; he glanced up and nodded at Hawke as they entered.

Hawke led Fenris towards the small curtained-off alcove at the back of the clinic which had been Anders' room; as they approached, a mage lifted aside the curtain and Fenris saw a young woman knelt beside the worn, broken cot where Anders had slept. The woman's head was bowed in prayer; as Fenris watched, she rose to her feet and made a curious gesture, pressing her hand to her heart, then her forehead, then she kissed her hand and held it palm out towards something upon the wall before turning away.

She bowed to Hawke as she passed them. “Blessings of the Healer, Messere,” she murmured.

“And with you, Serah,” he replied quietly before leading Fenris into the small room.

As the curtain fell behind them, Fenris looked around himself at the place where Anders had made his home in Kirkwall for so many years. It looked much as it had whilst Anders lived there, save for one thing; Anders' staff now hung upon two hooks on the wall. It was this which the woman had gestured towards.

“You have turned his room into a shrine?” asked Fenris, incredulous. Hawke shook his head.

“It had already become one when I first came down here. The Darktowners had come in, cleaned it up, and two apostates were already running a clinic out of here again in his name. I simply provided the funds to rebuild and provision it. I fund it now, in his memory.” He gestured to Anders' staff. “I don't know how his staff came to be here; I suspect Varric had a hand in that. I had nothing to do with its becoming an object of reverence, or in the cult that seems to have sprung up around him.”

“But you do nothing to dispel it either.”

Hawke shook his head. “No. He was much respected in Darktown. I suppose it does no harm.”

“Say his name,” said Fenris quietly. Hawke shook his head.

“No. I... I don't have the right,” said Hawke quietly. “Not a day goes by when I don't regret what I did. I miss him.” He gestured about the room. “This... the clinic... I've tried to make amends. I can't bring him back, but.... I can carry on his work. And once a week, I come back here, and ...” He turned slowly back to face the staff, and bowing his head, he buried his face in his hands and began to weep.

Fenris stared at him. “I had no idea....”

Hawke shook his head. “No.... No-one did....Maybe Varric... I told - told no-one though.” His voice was muffled by his hands, the words gasped out between quiet sobs.

Fenris quietly laid a hand upon Hawke's shoulder, wrestling inside with his conscience. “If...Anders lived....”

“Don't!” cried out Hawke in torment. “There were rumours... ghost stories... people saying they'd seen him afterwards, walking through Darktown. But that's all they could have been.” His shoulders shook as he wept. “I'd give anything to take back that day. I walked away from him, Fenris. I stabbed him and then I _walked away_. I left him to die alone. Oh Maker, how could I have done that to him? I must have been insane. I would give anything – _anything_ – to bring him back.”

“Hawke....”

Hawke lifted his head, and stared in surprise at the guilty look upon the elf's face.

“They were... not stories,” the elf said quietly. “Anders... lived.”

“What are you saying?” breathed Hawke, clutching at the elf's shoulders. “I killed him, we burned his body upon the pyre....”

Fenris shook his head. “We burned a body whose face had been battered beyond all recognition by vindictive templars, Hawke. We recognised him only from his hair and the clothes he wore.”

“He... Anders... he _lives_?” breathed Hawke, incredulously. He stared into Fenris' eyes, searching his face. His blue eyes chilled to ice and narrowed as comprehension dawned. “You knew. You knew he lived.”

Fenris nodded. The next moment he reeled backwards as Hawke's blow knocked him backwards.

“How dare you!” he roared. “You knew, and you never told me? You let me think him dead these past months?”

“And what would you have done, Hawke?” growled Fenris as he straightened, touching his jaw with a slight wince; a dark bruise was already forming, and blood was tricking down his chin from his split lip. “He feared you would come after him to finish what you had started.”

“You saw him? You spoke?”

“We spent one last night together,” replied Fenris quietly. “He was bound for the Deep Roads.”

Hawke groaned and turned away. “That's what Varric meant,” he murmured. “He mentioned something about the Legion; I had no idea what he was on about. He was trying to tell me....” he spun on his heel. “When did he go?”

“The second day after the uprising,” replied Fenris.

Hawke groaned in dismay. “Do you think he made it?”

“If anyone could survive the Deep Roads alone, it would be Anders,” replied Fenris.

Hawke stood with his head bowed, for long moments, then glanced up at Anders' staff before turning to look at Fenris.

“If he lives, then I will find him,” he vowed.


	8. Chapter 8

“So you finally told him, eh, elf?” said Varric, tilting his chair back on the rear two legs.

The dwarf had been in the middle of wading through what seemed to be a sea of paperwork; the large desk was covered in shipping manifests, ledgers, bills and receipts. Varric had been scowling at a set of entries in a leatherbound journal, running one stout finger down a column of figures in a ledger whilst gesticulating with a piece of paper at a subordinate.

“These figures make no sense; either Morden's diddling his fingers in the takings or I'm a son-of-a-nug,” he was growling when Hawke pushed roughly into the room, taking three strides to the desk before slamming his hands down, hands splayed out over the papers, and roared, “Where is he??”

Varric's employee had fled at a glance from the dwarf, closing the door behind him; now Varric regarded Hawke and Fenris thoughtfully.

“So what are you planning to do should you find him, Hawke?” asked Varric, ignoring Hawke's question. “Finish off what you started? Make certain he's actually dead this time?”

“Maker, no!” cried Hawke. “I just...” He straightened, his hands clenching into fists uselessly at his sides. “I just want to see him again. Tell him how sorry I am. Try to....”

“How do you make amends for stabbing a lover in the back, Hawke? What makes you think Blondie wants to be found – least of all by you?” Varric narrowed his eyes.

“You know where he is,” said Hawke. Varric rose from his seat, spreading his hands as he shrugged.

“Where he is right now? No,” he answered. “I may know how to find him – but I won't without a damned good reason, Hawke.”

“ _I_ want to find him – isn't that reason enough?” demanded Hawke. Varric raised an eyebrow.

“What makes you so sure he'll want to be found, Hawke? You stuck a knife in his back and didn't even stick around to make sure he was dead. That doesn't usually bode well for most relationships in my experience.”

Hawke blanched as Varric spoke. “Believe me, I've regretted what I did every single day since. If I could take it all back, live that day over...” He shook his head and dropped his gaze to the floor. “I dream of it every night. Nothing I've done in all my years has haunted so much as that moment. It replays in my mind over and over. I can still see him lying there, so still, all the blood....” He fisted a hand into his hair distractedly. “I've no right to expect his forgiveness. But to see him once more with my own eyes....” He looked up at Varric, a hopeless look in his eyes. “I just want to see him. To see for myself that he still lives. I mean him no harm, Varric, I swear it – but I have to lay my eyes on him just one last time.”

Varric regarded him silently.

“Please, Varric. I'm begging you.”

The dwarf turned away slowly and stared down at the paperwork on his desk for several minutes. Then finally he nodded.

“Thank you, Varric,” sighed Hawke gratefully as the dwarf moved back around his desk and sat back again, steepling his fingers thoughtfully as he regarded the warrior.

“I won't go with you,” he said evenly. “Someone has to stay behind and keep an eye on things here, and my sources tell me the Chantry is up to something at the moment. Nothing overt, but I think I ought to stick around and stick a few spanners in the works here and there. But I can tell you where to look, and I can get you a ship.”

“A ship?” repeated Hawke. Varric nodded.

“You'll need one to keep up with that pair,” he snorted. “He's with Isabela,” he clarified, as Hawke continued to look confused. “I'm not sure I can get you anything as fast as the _Mage's Pride_ -”

Fenris choked, his eyes widening. “That – she dared –!”

“Don't choke yourself to death, Broody,” chided Varric. “Yes, _they_ called the ship the _Mage's Pride_. Their idea of a joke I guess. But she's a fast three-mast topsail schooner, and I'm not sure there's anything in Kirkwall's harbour that could match her for speed right now. She plies up and down the coast from Highever to Denerim. She runs the occasional cargo for … associates... of mine.”

“So where are they now?” asked Hawke. Varric shrugged.

“Right now, I couldn't say, but they're due to put in at Ostwick in a couple of weeks. On their way down to Denerim. I'd say that would be the best place to start.”

Hawke nodded. “At least we know he's still alive and made it through the Deep Roads.”

Varric snorted. “Made it through and then some,” he replied. “He showed up in Highever with a new staff and his pockets full of trinkets he'd picked up on his way through. That's where Isabela ran into him, in some misbegotten dive that makes the Hanged Man look like the Viscount's Palace by comparison. She promptly whirled him off with her to help her steal a ship and they've been making merry hell together on the high seas ever since.”

Hawke barked out a laugh. “Anders and Isabela – I might have guessed, if I'd known he lived.” He shook his head. “He did once say he wondered what it would be like to live the life of a pirate. He told me that after he left the Wardens, he tried to plant a rumour that he'd sailed off to exotic lands, even mentioning Isabela's name a few times.” He smiled wryly. “I wonder if it's lived up to his expectations?”

“Hawke...” Varric said warningly; Hawke glanced up at him. “Anders... well. He's not the man you remember. He's changed.”

“What do you mean?” asked Hawke, puzzled. “He's still Anders. I can't believe he would have changed that much in only a few months.”

Varric shook his head. “You'll see,” was all he would say.

 

Varric was as good as his word. The _Kirkwall Tern_ wasn't perhaps as fast as the dwarf claimed the Mage's Pride to be, but she was a trim enough brig, and Varric had ordered her made ready to sail on the morning tide. Hawke stood on the quayside and studied her clean lines admiringly.

Fenris regarded the ship with rather less enthusiasm. “There is no other way?” he scowled.

Hawke shook his head. “Not if we want to be at Ostwick before the _Mage's Pride_ docks,” he replied. “It would take too long even on horseback, and I know for a fact you can't ride anyway.”

“I would be willing to learn,” replied Fenris grudgingly. Hawke glanced at him questioningly.

“You don't like ships?” he asked.

“I... get seasick,” replied Fenris dourly.

“Seriously?” said Hawke in surprise. “Most people I know get a bit queasy the first couple of days at sea but you get used to it after a while.”

Fenris shook his head. “Following my escape from Danarius after the deaths of the Fog Warriors, I escaped from Seheron in the hold of a merchant's ship that was bound for Antiva. A storm blew up whilst we were at sea. I was... very ill for a long time. When finally we put ashore, I was as weak as a kitten.” He shook his head at the memory. “Danarius very nearly caught up to me before I had recovered enough to move on. I escaped only a day or so before he and his slavers. I have not set foot upon a ship since.”

“I can see why you wouldn't be keen on the idea of sailing again then,” replied Hawke, glancing up at the ship. “But I'm afraid even horses wouldn't be fast enough.”

Fenris gritted his teeth and stared up at the ship without enthusiasm. “So be it,” he muttered.

 

Fenris was, indeed, seasick.

Very, very seasick.

Sick enough that he made no murmur of complaint when Hawke gently started to rub his back in small circles as the elf bent over the railing yet again, his empty stomach spasming and heaving uselessly. At any other time he would have shied away from the unwanted touch, but right now he was more preoccupied with the feeling that his stomach was trying its damnedest to turn itself completely inside out. He retched again, stomach twisting painfully; Hawke gently carded his loose white hair back away from his face with his fingers.

Finally Fenris turned and slumped back against the rail with a low groan, sliding down to sit upon the wooden deck, his arms wrapped around his midriff as he leaned forward. Hawke crouched down next to him and proffered a waterskin, which Fenris stared out for a moment then accepted with a look of resignation, knowing even water wouldn't stay down long. Perhaps he would manage to keep it down long enough to stave off dehydration. He felt truly wretched.

“When we find the mage, I may just kill him myself for this,” muttered the elf.

“When we find the mage, maybe he can do something to stop you getting seasick,” suggested Hawke.

“That...is actually of some comfort to me,” replied the elf slowly. He leaned back against the rail, his face pale and sheened with sweat. “What on earth possessed him to run off with Isabela?”

“Knowing Isabela, she probably didn't give him much choice,” replied Hawke, settling back upon his haunches as he restoppered the waterskin. “She does have a tendency to blow into your life like a whirlwind and drag you along for the ride.”

“You perhaps,” replied Fenris dryly. “You have a tendency to tag along with any trouble that blows your way.”

Hawke conceded the point, inclining his head in agreement. “How else would I have ended up acquiring a surly, broody elf as a companion and friend?”

“The same way I ended up with a cocky, mouthy warrior as one, I presume,” replied Fenris as Hawke rose to his feet, holding out a hand to Fenris. He stared at the hand, then accepted Hawke's help as the warrior tugged him to his feet. He swayed as the ship suddenly lurched, and Hawke brought his other hand up to cup Fenris' elbow, steadying him. Fenris froze, finding himself braced against Hawke's broad chest, rather close for his comfort.

Hawke stared down at the elf, something unreadable in his eyes as he held the elf gently.

“Hawke....” breathed Fenris quietly. Hawke's gaze dropped to the red sash still tied about the elf's left wrist, then gently he released the elf, stepping back a little.

“Have a care, Fenris,” said Hawke quietly. “You should watch your step. These seas can be stormy.”

Fenris regarded him warily, then nodded before stepping away and turning back to the rail. The queasiness in his stomach had nothing to do with his sudden need to take slow, deep breaths.


	9. Chapter 9

Anders had daydreamed about being a pirate often in his days in the Ferelden Circle. From the high windows of the tower, he could look out over Lake Calenhad; on hazy days, the far shore was obscured, and he could dream it were the sea, going on forever, the farthest reaches beckoning to him and promising freedom.

The closest he'd come to that freedom had been a headlong dive into the cold waters of the lake on one of his escape attempts, desperately striking out away from the tower as he tried to swim for freedom. He'd nearly drowned in the attempt and been dragged out of the water near-dead by a templar's fist grasping the back of his sodden robes. It had been a damned foolish thing to do, but desperation will drive men and women to do foolish things.

But now, the fresh sea air blowing through his sun-bleached hair was like that promise of freedom fulfilled, as he balanced on the rigging near the top of the mast, leaning upon the fore topgallant yardarm as he squinted past the brilliant morning sunshine at the horizon. The sun was warm on his shoulders, and he felt a rare content he'd known all too few times in his life. He was at no-one's beck and call, no demands on his time save those imposed by sea life or by his own choice, and for once in his life no fear. He couldn't remember a time in his life since that fateful fire in the barn when he was 12 when he hadn't lived in fear of someone or something.

But here on board the _Mage's Pride_ , he was truly free. The crew all knew he was a mage – and still treated him as one of them. His skills were viewed as useful rather than something to be feared.

He stared at the far horizon, where the small shape of an Orlesian merchant ship still steadily plied its way onwards. They'd been following it a couple of days and were steadily gaining upon it. Then he glanced back over his shoulder at the gathering bank of black storm clouds that was slowly gaining upon them in turn. He squinted at the clouds, gauging the speed of the wind, then glancing back at the Orlesian merchant. They would overtake the merchant ship in a matter of hours, but so would the storm. It would be a race to see who caught whom first. The sun through his silk shirt was warm, but the clouds were black and threatening. It would be a bad blow.

He glanced back down at the quarterdeck at the small figure in white tunic and high boots; a bright blue scarf kept long flowing black curls away from the bright amber eyes as Isabela stared forward and said something to the helmsman, who nodded understanding. They both looked up to where Anders perched, and Isabela waved to him. He raised a hand in answer, then began to make his way back down the shrouds.

He'd taken well to life on board deck. There was plenty to eat, and the physical hard work kept him fit and trim. There were no idle passengers on board the _Mage's Pride_ ; Isabela worked as hard as any of her crew, and she'd insisted Anders did the same. He'd found it actually suited him. His palms soon toughened up with callouses from climbing the rigging, even as he muscled up from daily hard labour. His skin had darkened from long days spent out in the sun, even as his hair had turned paler. His hair was longer, and he'd kept the beard, though now it was neatly trimmed; he doubted anyone would recognise in him now the mage who had brought down Kirkwall's Chantry.

He strode down the deck then took the stairs to the quarterdeck two at a time. “She's still there just up ahead,” he said to Isabela by way of greeting. Isabela nodded as she crossed the quarterdeck and wrapped an arm around his waist. He rolled his eyes but looked down at her with a fond smile.

“The crew will talk,” he teased her.

“Let them,” replied Isabela with a cheeky grin as she reached up a hand to curl around the back of his neck, drawing him down.

“Isabela....” he said warningly; she gave him a wink and planted a rather chaste kiss on his nose before letting him go.

“Still moping over your broody elf?” she teased. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“It's not just Fenris,” he replied. “You know that.”

She snuggled in against his side, and he slung an arm comfortably round her shoulders. “I know,” she replied quietly. “You're still having that dream.”

He nodded, not answering, his gaze flicking up to the sails and rigging, gauging the wind as it drove them onwards. There was a faint change in the air; he frowned slightly.

“Weather's changing,” he murmured.

“I know,” replied Isabela. “Wind's been slowly dropping this past hour.” She darted him a sideways glance. “What are you feeling?”

He closed his eyes and concentrated.

This was something still quite new to him. During these months at sea, he'd been experimenting with his magic and had found that that same sense he used to feel out injury and illnesses in the bodies of himself and others could also be sent outward to feel out changes in weather. He was still learning how to interpret the things he felt, but he was getting good enough to be able to feel the way the weather was moving, where the winds were shifting, and to pick up on the telltale signs of a storm growing. Like the one behind them now. His magic senses told him the things his eyesight alone had not been able to discern.

“We'd best prepare,” he warned Isabela as he opened his eyes. “There's a bad storm coming up behind. It'll reach us in an hour, maybe two.”

Isabela tapped her fingers thoughtfully up his side. “Can we outrun it?”

He shook his head. Isabela swore. “Well, one consolation – that fat Orlesian merchant won't outrun it either,” she said with a grim smile. “And she'll likely weather it worse than us. She'll be easy pickings.”

He nodded.

As Isabela strode away to start shouting commands to the crew, Anders made his way below towards their cabin. He wanted his staff close to hand; an instinctive prickling in the back of his mind told him he might need it.

They reefed in the topgallants and staysails before the full force of the wind could hit. The crew set to work the moment Isabela rallied them, stowing away anything that could be cleared from the deck and lashing down anything that couldn't – tying down the large ballistae that stood upon the deck so they wouldn't break loose in the midst of the storm, fastening them down with stout oiled clothes to protect them from the worst of the storm damage. The water barrels stored on deck were lashed together; a full barrel breaking loose in the middle of the storm could easily kill one or more men, and with a crew of only thirty Isabela didn't want to lose a single one. The _Mage's Pride_ could be handled with a crew half that size at a pinch, but Isabela preferred not to take the risk.

They rigged up jack lines, and the men who would be staying above-decks all wore belts that clipped onto the lines. Anders had never seen such a thing before, but Isabela had explained it was a Rivaini custom; fierce, sudden squalls often blew up off the North coast of Rivain, making the Northern Passage hazardous – particularly in late summer and early autumn.

“They come up out of nowhere,” Isabela had explained, leaning upon the railing as they stared out across the waves. “One minute it's clear blue sky, a sultry summer calm; the next moment it's blowing up all round you and the air turns white with the whipped-up spray. You can't tell rain from sea, north from south. No warning of black clouds over the horizon either; one moment it's clear and sunny, the next minute the water's breaking, the waves all capped with white, then BAM!” she slapped her hands together right beside Anders' ear, startling him, “you're right in the middle of it, the deck damned near vertical as the winds have the ship keeled over on her beam and half your crew are gone. The wind's gone from a dead calm to a hundred knots and you can't see your hand in front of your face for the spray. You're clinging to the stanchions for dear life and praying there'll still be a deck below your feet when the next twenty-footer's rolled over you.”

Isabela had seen a fair number of them in her time, and she'd explained how Rivaini ships plying the Passage all carried lines and knew the signs. Crew would clip themselves to the line to save themselves from being washed overboard when a squall struck, and even in other waters she'd kept the habit of ordering lines rigged when a storm approached.

They were fortunate; this storm had given them enough warning that the hatches were all battened down and crew on their lines and ready before it hit.

“You'd best get below,” Isabela warned Anders as the wind dropped, the mainsails hanging limp in the sudden calm.

Anders shook his head. “I'd feel useless down there,” he argued. “I'd sooner be up here where I know what's going on. And if half the stories you've told me about storms at sea are true, you're going to need me as a healer up here – not holed up like some useless passenger hiding in the cabin till it's over,” he argued. “And it's not as though you couldn't use another pair of hands up here.”

“Well, it's true you've been a fast study and you know your way around a ship now,” allowed the Rivaini pirate grudgingly. “But you do as I tell you, and if I tell you to get below then you damned well do it, understood?”

“Aye aye, captain!” replied Anders with a cheeky grin. She grinned back.

“Get yourself on a line, Blondie,” she ordered. “I'll not risk losing you overboard.”

He slung his staff firmly upon his back, checking the retaining straps were firmly buckled so it wouldn't swing around or come loose as he moved around, then snapped the brass clip onto the nearby line that ran along the starboard rail of the quarterdeck.

Not before time, either; even as he checked the clip was on firmly, the deck gave a lurch beneath his feet and the wind belled out the mains'ls taut with a snap of canvas. Isabela gave the order to start reefing in the mains'ls, and the crew men up on the yardarms set to work with a will, shortening the sails against the storm winds. The ship heeled hard over to port under the onslaught of the gale, slowly pulling herself upright again as the helmsman spun the wheel to turn the ship into the wind. The storm jibs were run up as they pulled the mains'ls flat, Isabela shouting orders as she ran forward to help haul on the fore mains'l halyard, Anders only a step behind her.

It was back-breaking work; the sails fought them as they pulled them in tight, luffing them in as the helmsman fought to keep them headed into the wind. They were all soon drenched to the skin and blinded by the salt spray, and Anders could appreciate Isabela's insistence on them all being on the jack lines. He lost count of the number of times a sudden wave across the weather deck swept him off his feet, and he had no doubt that if not fr the stout leather belt and clip holding him to the ropes then he would have been swept overboard.

As it was, he was certain he would be bruised all over come the morrow, and his arms and back were aching with the strain of hauling on wet ropes and struggling with the sails.

The helmsman suddenly shouted with alarm as he wrestled with the wheel; Isabela unclipped her line and sprinted across the heaving deck for the quarterdeck stairs, and Anders followed, snapping his clip onto the stair line. The ship gave a lurch then suddenly heeled hard over to starboard, and Anders caught Isabela around the waist just in time as the rail dipped into the sea. He was suddenly drenched in icy cold water, his feet swept off the slick wooden stairs. He wrapped both arms around Isabela's slender waist and felt her clinging to his shoulders as she buried her face against his neck.

They were dragged under the water; Anders held his breath as the sea washed over his face and then suddenly all the loud creaks and groans, shouts of crew and wailing of the wind were curiously muted, the world turned a murky grey-green swirled with white foam. It was oddly peaceful. He stared up into Isabela's wide amber eyes, and with a shock he suddenly realised she was laughing.

Then the ship lurched back upright again, dragging them both back up into the salt-tanged air, and they were thrown in a huddle back down onto the stairs, Anders desperately gasping for breath even as Isabela shrieked with laughter. He was still clinging tightly to her.

“Come on, Blondie!” she yelled as she pushed herself free of his embrace and raced up the stairs to fling herself against the helm.

“You're bloody mad, woman!” he yelled back even as he pulled himself back up onto his feet and followed her.

The ship was trying to turn leeward downwind, and it took the combined effort of all three to pull her back into the wind again before the storm could catch and spin her round. They began to tack slowly into the wind, the ship hauling herself ponderous and slow through the oncoming waves. At each tack, it seemed the ship would stall, and there were a few tense moments when Anders wondered if the ship would back around or keel over again under the shrieking winds of the gale; but each time, the _Mage's Pride_ would turn steadily as the storm jib caught the wind and belled out once more, pulling her on into the next turn.

Anders gave no thought to the fat Orlesian merchant vessel; his whole world seemed narrowed down to focus on the wheel, the scream of the wind, the ache across his shoulders and down his back as he threw his weight against the helm, the rain and sea spray driving into his face and blinding him. He wondered how the helmsman was able to tell which way they were going or how to steer; it was all he could do to see more than a foot or two before him.

There was a sudden cracking sound, and then shouts and screams came drifting back to them from the ship's prow. Isabela leaned towards him and yelled something, but the wind whipped the words away before he could hear.

“What?” he yelled back, shaking his head. Isabela frowned, shook her head, and leaned closer.

“The foremast's gone!” she yelled. “There are men trapped under the mast and shrouds!”

He nodded understanding; as two other crew men threw themselves forward to take their place at the helm, he and Isabela fought their way forwards.

The mast had come down hard athwart the deck just aft of the fo'c'sle; men were hacking at the shrouds and rigging to free men trapped beneath. Anders threw himself into the work alongside Isabela, drawing a long knife and hacking at the ropes as they worked to free the mast and shove it overboard before the waterlogged sails could drag the ship over.

As the mast finally slipped free and slid into the sea, Anders threw himself down into the mess of rigging, ropes, blocks and tackle, his mage senses already reaching out to the injured men beneath. He fell to his knees even as the mana pooled in his hands, calm and reassuring, before he laid his hands on the nearest man, sinking the magic into the wounded body as his mind followed it down into torn flesh, broken bones, ruptured blood vessels, healing and soothing away the pain.

As one man after another was helped shakily to his feet, there was another to take his place. And another. And another. Broken arms, legs, ribs; punctured lungs, spleen, crushed liver. A snapped spine. He didn't know when the storm began to ease and slacken; he was only conscious that the salt sea spray was no longer blinding him and it was easier to breathe.

And then he was crouched over a body that wasn't moving, wasn't breathing; his senses sinking sluggishly into the still body, reaching for the broken neck and trying to draw bone, muscle, blood back together but he couldn't understand why it wasn't working, why the body wasn't responding to his magic, reaching inside himself for his own life energy even as the last of the mana drained away; and then he was crying out in protest as firm yet gentle hands were lifting him up, dragging him away from the body he was still trying doggedly to heal even as voices told him it was enough, he'd done enough, it was over, the man was dead.

“He's... dead?” Anders looked around, slumping in the supportive grasp of several men who had bodily lifted him away from the dead man. Isabela nodded and smiled reassuringly.

“You've done enough, Anders,” she said quietly. “He was dead even before we reached him. But you saved the others.”

He cried out faintly, exhausted, feeling his failure like a dull physical blow inside. Isabela drew him close, cradling his head against her breasts. “Hush, it's OK. You saved the rest. Men who would have been crippled for life if not for you. Don't grieve for one who was too far gone. You did a good job.”

He raised his head slowly and looked around. “The storm's over,” he said in dull surprise. Isabela grinned.

“It was over over an hour ago. You've been working solidly on healing all this time. Come on, let's get you below decks and into dry clothes.”

He nodded, exhausted, and draped his arm over Isabela's shoulders as she stepped into his side and flung an arm around his waist. He leaned in against her, grateful for the support as they made their way – rather unsteadily, in Anders' case – aft towards her cabin. He ducked his head as they made their way below.

Once in the cabin, he unslung his staff and tossed it over onto the bunk before Isabela helped him to peel off the sodden shirt. He sank down onto the bed as he wrestled with his boots; after a moment, Isabela crouched down next to him and started to unlace them before pulling them off one after the other. She hauled him back up to his feet then slowly peeled off his pants. He flopped back onto the bunk as she turned to reach for a clean, dry pair.

He was already asleep as she turned back to him. She put her hands on her hips and tutted as she stared down at him, sprawled upon his back, eyes closed and his face pale and drawn with exhaustion. She tutted, then gently lifted his legs up onto the bunk, rolling him over and covering him over with the blankets.

She stripped and changed, then towelled off her damp black locks before tying her hair back with a clean head scarf. She gave Anders one last glance and then bent low over him, trailing one hand gently down the side of his face. He sighed faintly, turning his face into the touch though his eyes remained closed. She leaned in closer, her lips briefly brushing his; he stirred slightly and breathed Fenris' name. Isabela stilled, then reluctantly drew back, smoothing the blankets over his chest with a wistful sigh before slowly turning away. Shaking her head, she left the mage to sleep and made her way back up on deck.

He'd earned his rest, she reflected, as she made her way to the helm, eyes automatically roving over the lines of her ship.

Now, where was that fat Orlesian merchant?


	10. Chapter 10

_The cobblestones of the Gallows were cold beneath his bare feet, slicked with blood. As he glanced around, it seemed the whole courtyard was awash with the dark fluid, a coppery taint heavy in the humid air. He turned around slowly, his eyes taking in sadly the sight of mages lying sprawled across the bloodied stones like so many discarded rag dolls, lifeless and broken. Men and women, young and old; apprentices barely into their teens, elder Enchanters; all had fallen to the templars' blades, massacred where they stood or struck down from behind as they tried to flee._

 _A faint scraping sound of a blade being drawn from its sheath behind him caused him to spin round, bare feet slipping and skidding slightly on the slick stones. His eyes widened._

 _Fenris knelt upon the wet stones, unheeding of the blood which smeared upon his leggings and bare feet. His head was bowed, white hair tumbling forward to cover his face, shoulders slumped in resignation, hands limp upon his knees. Behind him stood Hawke, the Blade of Mercy held easily in one hand as he rested the blade upon Fenris' shoulder. As Anders watched, Hawke glanced up at him and grinned mirthlessly, raising the sword until it was poised above the kneeling elf's bared neck._

 _“No... oh Maker no, please!” breathed Anders as he took a step towards them, one hand rising in denial of what was happening._

 _Hawke only grinned wider as his eyes glazed over in blue-white fire, his skin splitting open in a latticework of spirit fire._

 _“NO!!” screamed Anders, flinging himself forward even as the blade swung inexorably down to slice into the side of Fenris' neck, neatly severing the elf's spine and sending his head rolling across the blood-slicked stones towards the stunned mage. He fell to his knees and reached for the head with trembling hands. As he lifted up the elf's head to stare down in horror at Fenris' dead face, the elf's emerald-green eyes suddenly flickered open and blinked at him._

 _“Your fault,” mouthed the dead elf._

 

“No!” screamed Anders as he jerked upright, eyes wide in horror, his heart pounding wildly in his chest as he instinctively reached for his staff.

“Anders?” asked Isabela, startled, as she pulled back from the act of waking him. Anders stared at her with terrified eyes, for a moment not recognising her or where he was.

“It's not my fault! I didn't do it, it wasn't me!” he blurted out desperately.

“What's not your fault? What didn't you do?” asked Isabela, her eyes filled with concern as she gently held his shoulders. “C'mon, wake up, Anders. It was a dream. You're safe. It's over.”

He blinked as he slowly came back to himself. “Is-Isabela?” he said shakily.

“Who else?” she said with a friendly grin. “You OK?”

He drew a shuddering breath, then shook his head. “No. I'm not alright. I'll never be alright,” he murmured. “It will never be over.” He lowered his head to one trembling hand as he drew the staff closer with the other; it seemed to almost thrum comfortingly beneath his fingers, the cool wood somehow vibrant and alive with energy. It was a reassurance to him; solid, dependable.

“I hate to have to wake you, but the Orlesian merchant is just three cables off the starboard bow. I need all hands on deck, but especially you.”

He nodded. “Give me a moment here. I'll be up on deck shortly.”

She nodded, rising gracefully to her feet and making her way to the door of the cabin. “Five minutes, no longer,” she warned him.

Then he was alone. He drew his knees up under the covers and ran a hand over his face. The dreams were as bad as they'd been back in Kirkwall; the only difference was that now instead of darkspawn, they all revolved around Hawke, Fenris... and Justice.

Justice. He'd never dreamed of the spirit; not once in all the time they were joined, and not before either, when Justice inhabited the dead body of Kristoff. Yet now the spirit seemed to perpetually haunt his dreams; Justice possessing Hawke, or directly threatening Fenris in some other way. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to these dreams than simple night terrors, but he couldn't fathom what.

He kicked off the blankets; laying the staff down, he reached for clean clothing, pulling on fresh pants and a spare silk shirt, smoothing the fabric down before pulling on a leather jerkin. He took a moment to tie back his hair with a black silk scarf, then snatched up the staff and headed up on deck.

He glanced over to starboard, where the fat Orlesian merchant vessel was wallowing sluggishly in the gusting winds. She had fared less well than the _Mage's Pride_ ; her fore and main masts were gone, and she was struggling along with just the mizzen mast and a jury-rigged storm jib that looked to have been roughly patched together. Lengths of the weather deck railing were gone, and part of the quarterdeck railing with it. Only one ship's boat remained lashed onto the main deck, and it looked as though they'd lost most of their water barrels. There seemed to be rather fewer crewmen on her decks than might be expected for a ship her size, and Anders guessed that unlike Isabela, her captain hadn't known to rig lines for the crew's safety. As he made his way up to the quarterdeck, he wondered whether her cargo had come through unscathed too. This could be an expensive voyage if there were no loot to show for it.

Then as he climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck, he casually glanced over to port – and froze.

There on the horizon, obscured by the late afternoon haze, he could distantly make out a white shape; sunshine gleaming off a vaguely triangular shape. A ship, most likely. He narrowed his eyes, unable to shake an uneasy feeling as he slowly continued up the quarterdeck stairs.

“So, what's the plan?” he asked as he made his way easily across the gently rolling deck to join Isabela at the starboard rail. She lowered the spyglass from her eye and smiled at him.

“Same as ever,” she replied. “We close to a cable away and run up the colours. If they're smart, they'll strike a white flag and save us the effort of having to punch holes through them. If not, you chuck a few warning fireballs across their bow until they get the message.” She raised the spyglass again. “I don't think they'll put up much of a fight when we board them; but just in case, you're coming across with me.”

He nodded. “And what about them?” he asked, pointing back towards port. She frowned as she glanced at him, then back over to where he was pointing.

Far against the horizon, the small, triangular white dot had grown slightly larger. Isabela raised the spyglass and stared silently for a few minutes, then swore roundly.

“Maker's icy blue balls! It's a Starkhaven ship – what in the name of Andraste's flaming rotten crotch-droppings is it doing here?” she snarled.

“Starkhaven? Are you sure?” asked Anders, a sudden cold chill of fear racing down his spine. In answer, Isabela wordlessly passed him the spyglass.

It was a large galleon, a three-masted ship of the line, heading on what appeared to be a convergent course with theirs under full sail, her sheets a brilliant white in the late afternoon sun. The Starkhaven colours fluttered free in the wind, clearly visible through the telescope.

“But they're miles away from their usual waters!” breathed Anders. He lowered the glass and stared at Isabela.

“He knows,” he whispered. “He knows I'm alive....”

“It may not be Sebastian,” suggested Isabela, but Anders shook his head as he passed the spyglass back.

“No. It's him,” he said grimly, turning back to the rail. He gripped the wood tight, his knuckles whitening.

“We'll not surrender you, Blondie,” said Isabela, resting a hand on his shoulder as he slumped in dejection. “Chin up. It'll be hours before he reaches us yet, and in the meantime we've a fat merchant ship to loot. And if Prince Vael thinks to find us helpless and at his mercy, he'll be in for a nasty surprise.”

Anders glanced up at her, and she gave him a feral grin. “Besides, just think of the loot to be had from a ship of the Starkhaven Navy!”

He grudgingly returned her grin and nodded.

Isabela turned away and began shouting orders to her crew.

 

* * *

 

The Orlesians decided to be stubborn. They responded to the _Mage's Pride_ running up her colours by firing at her with one of the two remaining ballistae that hadn't been swept off her deck by the storm. The large spear fell harmlessly into the sea, its range somewhat short of that needed to effectively strike the smaller but faster schooner. Anders rolled his eyes at Isabela, who laughed as he climbed down the quarterdeck stairs then sauntered along the main deck, his staff resting on his shoulder.

The crewmen watched him pass with knowing smirks, winks and nods. A couple gave him a thumbs-up as he made his way up to the fo'c'sle; he recognised one as being the man whose broken back Anders had mended after the storm. He took the stairs up to the small deck two at a time and made his way to the starboard rail. He casually spun his staff with a twirl and a flourish before striking a pose as he levelled the point of the staff towards the other ship. The lyrium roses around the end of the staff flared into life as the crystal lit up with the building power; he let it gather, then launched the blast in the form of a large, powerful fireball. It arched gracefully in the air as it soared towards the Orlesian ship, passing narrowly over the prow of the vessel with an angry roar and hiss like a hundred hungry dragons before exploding in a burst of superheated steam just to the starboard side of the ship, sending Orlesians running for cover from the scalding spray.

The crew of the _Mage's Pride_ gave a cheer which soon degenerated into whistles, jeers and catcalls as the Orlesian vessel hastily ran up a white flag of surrender. Anders grinned as he slung his staff back over his shoulder and strode back along the deck, heading aft once more. It was rare that he had to cast more than one or maybe two fireballs at most; invariably the prey would surrender rather than risk their ship being incinerated by his magic, their crew struck down by lightning bolts or frozen to the rigging by a Winter's Grasp spell. This conquest would be much the same as any other; they would close in the distance, hooking the two ships together with grappling lines. There might be a brief scuffle as Isabela's crew boarded; occasionally Anders might have to step in with a few paralysis or ice spells just to help bring things under control. Then they'd liberate the ship of its cargo, ransack the captain's cabin for anything in particular that caught Isabela's fancy, then set the crew adrift in the ship's boat before the _Mage's Pride_ crew returned to their own vessel, casting the captured ship afloat before Anders would scuttle it by using it for more fireball practice.

Isabela at first had objected when Anders had insisted upon sparing the crews of the captured ships; he had had to be forcibly restrained from trying to heal injured prisoners. He refused to stand by and let Isabela's men slaughter their prisoners out of hand though, and eventually Isabela allowed herself to be persuaded around to his way of thinking. It was true that Anders' magic made her conquests that much easier, to the point that often ships would surrender the moment the M _age's Pride_ struck her colours and they realised who they were dealing with.

Still, sometimes Isabela wondered if they were not simply making more trouble for themselves further down the line by allowing so many witnesses to live. As she glanced back at the Starkhaven ship through her spyglass, she reflected that this was a rather unfortunate pigeon that had chosen to come home to roost. She shook her head as she snapped the spyglass shut and started to shout orders to her crew; the sooner they could loot this fat bird and scuttle her, the sooner they could make a run for it. Regardless of the bravado behind her words to the mage, Isabela rather doubted they would fare well in a protracted battle against a Starkhaven ship of the line; if they truly were here after Anders, then it would be a safe bet to assume there were templars on board that ship – and she had no idea just how far their magic-negating powers could extend. She didn't much fancy finding that out the hard way.

Anders had lost his smile as he climbed the stairs back up to the quarterdeck; evidently his mind had also been on the Starkhaven ship.

“Do you think you could pull off your Chantry trick on a ship?” she asked him; he stood still and rocked slightly on his heels as he regarded her in surprise. He reached back to touch his staff as though for reassurance.

“I can't destroy the Starkhaven ship like that,” he replied. “It's impossible.”

Isabela shook her head. “Not the Starkhaven ship; the Orlesian merchant,” she replied. He frowned.

“I could,” he allowed slowly. “If I had the right ingredients.”

“Sela petrae and drakenstone, right?”

His eyes widened. “How did you....”

She laughed. “That's for me to know and you to worry about, kitten,” she grinned. “But if I tell you I've got what you need, do you think you could help me set a nasty trap for yon templars?”

He glanced back at the Starkhaven galleon; it was still distant, but it could only be a matter of hours before they closed the distance. Then he glanced back at Isabela as he approached her slowly, unslinging his staff as he came to stand beside her by the wheel.

“You're serious? You want me to blow up the Orlesian vessel as a trap for that ship?”

“Think you're up to the task? You were over a mile away from the Chantry when it went up, so I'm guessing however you did it, you can do it from quite a distance – so we can be safely on our way before it goes off, am I right?”

He nodded slowly. “I'm not sure just what the maximum range is, but yes – up to a mile, I'm fairly confident I can make it work.”

“Come on then,” grinned Isabela. “Let's loot our fat bird and get it all on board fast - I've got something to show you.”

 

* * *

 

Anders stared at the barrels and shook his head slowly. “The sela petrae was easy enough for me to find, but it took Hawke and I weeks to find enough drakenstone deposits to take down the Chantry,” he breathed as he set a hand on a barrel. “Where on Thedas did you....”

“Never you mind,” replied Isabela with a cheeky grin. “A girl's got to have some secrets. Now, what else do you need?”

“Four or five strong men to get this lot over to the Orlesian merchant, mix and prepare it under my directions,” replied Anders.

“Is that going to be dangerous?” asked Isabela. He shook his head.

“No, not really. The last bit is the most tricky, but I'll do that alone,” he replied. She nodded.

“We've nearly finished shifting the last of the Orlesian cargo over,” Isabela smiled. “Enough wine to keep Fenris rat-arsed for a year, and the spices and silks will fetch handsome prices in Kirkwall and Amarinthine. We'll put in at Ostwick on the way south and offload Varric's share.”

“Assuming this plan of yours actually works and doesn't instead get you hung and me made Tranquil and then hung,” replied Anders gloomily.

“Cheer up, Blondie!” grinned Isabela as she slapped him on the shoulder. “Worse things have happened at sea!”

“Don't say that,” groaned Anders. “Knowing my luck, I'll get to find that out the hard way now!”

The pirate laughed as she led the way back up on deck.

 

* * *

Once the Orlesian merchant's cargo had been safely stowed aboard the _Mage's Pride_ and the ragged remains of its crew set adrift in its one remaining ship's boat, Anders and the small detail of Isabela's crew carefully transferred the barrels over to the Orlesian merchant. Anders directed the men as they mixed up the explosive powder carefully, the mage overseeing each stage closely, occasionally stepping in to add something else to the mix or to carefully channel small amounts of mana into the black powder that resulted. He sent the men back to the _Mage's Pride_ with the exception of one crewman who helped him with the last few remaining steps.

Then Anders sent that man back up to the main deck whilst he made his final preparations. At least this time he didn't have to lie to Hawke to get him to distract the woman who would die in a matter of hours after Anders' last clandestine visit, or worry about being discovered by a priest, acolyte or – even worse – a templar before he could finish his preparations.

Still, he couldn't repress a shiver as he went about his work, remembering the last time he had done this; the last time he had cast these spells. As the last glow of magic sank into the wooden hull of the ship and the barrels, he cast one last glance round then quietly climbed back up the ladder out of the hold and onto the deck.

“Let's get away from here,” he told the men. “And Maker's sakes, don't make any loud noises or drop anything!”

The men shuffled nervously but silently back over to the railing; they all boarded the ship's boat and cast off as quietly as possible, carefully fending the boat away from the side of the ship before starting to row back towards the _Mage's Pride_.

“All set?” asked Isabela; Anders nodded. Isabela gave him a feral grin, then strode forward, shouting out orders to her men to set all sails. As the schooner jerked then responded to the pull of the wind, her sails belling out and the canvas snapping taut, Anders strode to the rear rail of the quarterdeck, staring back towards the Orlesian vessel as the _Mage's Pride_ swung around to put the fat merchant ship between them and the Starkhaven warship.

“It'll be a good couple of hours before she reaches our little surprise,” Isabela reminded him as he leaned on the rail, resting his chin on his arms, his eyes restlessly flicking between the drifting looted vessel and the proud white warship that was steadily bearing down on it.

“I know,” he relied quietly. She stared down at him; there was something different about his voice, and as she stared at the taut way he held himself, she realised that all the happy-go-lucky had gone out of him the moment he had seen the Starkhaven colours through her spyglass. He was dropping instinctively back into the habits and posture of a hunted apostate once more.

She leaned on the railing next to him, casually draping an arm around his waist. When she pulled him in against her side, he didn't resist as he usually did; he almost melted against her, and after a moment he lowered his head to rest upon her shoulder.

“You're scared,” she said quietly. After a moment he nodded. “Don't be,” she said quietly. “They're not going to take you without a fight.”

“Izzy....” he began; she turned and straightened, pulling him firmly against her as she pressed a long, shapely finger to his lips.

“Hush,” she said softly but firmly. “This isn't over yet. You're still a free man. And I have plenty of tricks up my sleeves yet.”

“You're not wearing sleeves,” he pointed out with a wry grin.

“See? Told you I was tricksy!” she grinned. “Knew I could make you smile.” She leaned forward and before he could react, she kissed him.

It wasn't like kissing Hawke or Fenris. Isabela's lips were soft, warm, her breath sweet with a faint hint of exotic spice. Her tongue was slender yet firm, darting out to taste him before probing past his surprised, slack lips to delve into his mouth, searching, tasting. Her amber eyes were dancing with laughter as his own eyes fluttered closed and he groaned. The hand at his waist pulled him tight against her firm, curvaceous body even as the other hand snaked up the back of his neck and slid into his hair. His arms were pinned by his sides; even so, he could have pulled away easily had he so wished – he was taller than the Rivaini pirate, and these past months on board ship had toughened and strengthened him, and he was no weakling to begin with.

Yet something caused him to check his instinctive urge to pull back, push her away; a desire for company, a loneliness for a warm, willing body to hold and comfort him as the old fears of being hunted settled back over him like a familiar yet stifling blanket, smothering him again. Instead of fighting Isabela's kiss, he melted into it; not fully returning it, but not fighting it either. His hands remained at his sides, but he lowered his head towards her, allowing her to deepen the kiss.

He knew they were attracting glances from the crew, but right now he didn't care. He needed this; needed the comfort Isabela was freely offering. And whilst he wouldn't – _couldn't_ – allow it to go any further than this kiss, for now he was content to surrender himself up as the pirate plundered his mouth and try to forget the Starkhaven warship that pursued them and all thoughts of the prince on board who sought to take both his freedom and his life.

And right now, he very much wanted to live. Free.

He could not shake a mental image of emerald-green eyes regarding him with hurt and betrayal however.


	11. Chapter 11

When Isabela pulled slightly away from him, sliding her hands to his and stepping backwards, tugging lightly, he had been tempted.

Just for a moment.

Then he had pulled away with a sad smile. A kiss was one thing, but while he knew Fenris still drew breath, he wouldn't betray his memories of what they'd had like this – by coupling with Isabela.

As the pirate watched him shake his head with a sad smile and turn back to the railing, she couldn't resist giving a small huff of frustration. The apostate was a very different man from the one she'd bedded one gloriously debauched night over ten years ago in the _Pearl_ in Ferelden. That man had been as much a hedonist as she was, and just as refreshingly free of morals as she liked to think herself.

The man who leaned on the rail before her, head bowed and shoulders slightly slumped as an old burden settled back onto him, was a very different creature; almost a complete stranger to that man. During their months aboard the _Mage's Pride_ , she'd thought she'd seen glimpses of that other Anders coming back again. Now, in the space of less than a day, it was almost as though he'd never existed. Anders' eyes held a haunted, fearful look once more.

At first, when she'd found him in Highever, his sleep had been punctuated nightly by horrific dreams, nightmares from which he'd awaken screaming. They'd steadily faded during their months on the _Mage's Pride_ until it seemed they'd left them behind; it had shaken her to see him gripped in the throes of a nightmare once more.

Now as she stared at his bowed back, she felt anger starting to coil deep in her guts, disappointment like the sour taste of ashes in her mouth. She lifted her gaze to the Starkhaven ship as it bore steadily onwards down on them. Every sail on the large galleon was unfurled, every square foot of canvas spread to the wind, and Isabela knew that the _Mage's Pride_ could never outrun it – not even if she hadn't lost her foremast in the gale. The smaller schooner was still fast, and she had no doubt she could out-race anything in Kirkwall's harbour – but a Starkhaven galleon under full sail? Not a chance.

She would never have admitted that to Anders however. He already looked as though he was halfway towards giving up in defeat; she'd be damned if she'd give him further cause for despair. As she watched, he bowed his head, his knuckles whitening on the wooden rail. She frowned and glanced up at the horizon, wondering what it was he seemed to have spotted that caused him to curl even further in upon himself. And then she understood.

Another sail had appeared, also bearing down upon them from the north-west, even as the Starkhaven approached from west-south-west. The two ships' paths would converge on the _Mage's Pride_ within a couple of hours, maybe a little less. The newcomer looked certain to avoid the Orlesian ship, whereas the Starkhaven vessel was making directly towards it.

Isabela pulled out her spyglass and set it to her eye. The new ship sprang into clear focus. It was a square-rigged three-masted brig, flying the Kirkwall colours. She narrowed her eyes as she spotted a pair of flags fluttering above the prow. One she recognised as Varric's trading insignia; the other....

“Hawke,” she breathed, lowering the spyglass. “She's flying the flag of the Champion of Kirkwall.”

“So Varric finally told him,” said Anders dully. “I guess it's a race now to see which one reaches us first.”

“Anders....”

He pushed himself away from the rail, hefting his staff in his hand as he stared down at it. He set it before him and pressed his forehead against the smooth, cool, polished ebony wood as if communing in silence with it. Isabela watched uneasily as a faint flickering glow illuminated the lyrium roses upon the shaft briefly, as though the staff were responding to its master's distress.

“They'll be upon the Orlesian ship in, what, an hour?” he asked Isabela; she nodded before finding her voice.

“About then, yes,” she agreed. “The Kirkwall ship is bearing straight towards us though. Will the blast hit them too?”

He shrugged. “I honestly don't know,” he replied. “Perhaps. It's hard for me to judge; there's more black powder aboard the Orlesian ship than I used for the Chantry explosion, but I don't know how much bigger the explosion will be as a result. And the final magic that detonated that was more Justice than I; I don't know how much of an effect on the final result that had.”

“How close do you think they'll need to be?” she asked as she tucked the spyglass back into her belt.

“Again, I'm not sure. Maybe close enough to see there's no-one on board.”

“Perhaps a couple of cables away?” pushed Isabela. He turned and faced her, and she could see the weary, haunted look in his eyes. She felt an unfamiliar surge of guilt for pushing him, but she needed to know. He shrugged.

“Perhaps,” he agreed.

She pushed herself up against him; he tried to pull away from her but his back struck the wooden railing, bringing him up short as the woman pressed herself against him. She grasped his face in her warm brown hands, forcing him to look down at her.

“Listen to me, Anders,” she said in a low but firm voice. “I'm not giving up on you. So don't you dare give up on yourself before you've even had a chance to fight. Do you hear me?”

“Izzy....” he tried to protest, but she shook her head angrily, her gold hoop earrings jangling discordantly as she glared at him. “I'm not finished yet!” she snapped. “There is not a man on this ship who hasn't had cause to be grateful to you these past months. Our takings are easier than ever; you've helped us bring in far more gold than ever before. You've healed them when they've needed it; you've saved their lives at times. Do you honestly think a single man of this crew will stand idly by and watch the templars or Hawke take you?”

She stepped back, glaring at him. “Because if you do, then you do them and yourself a great disservice. Now, are you going to fight – or are you going to give up before we've even started?”

He straightened himself up. “I'll fight,” he growled low.

Her lips twisted in a feral grin. “Now there's the Anders we all know and love!” she said in a satisfied tone.

As she turned away, she thought she saw a brief flash of blue fire deep in his eyes; when she glanced back, however, his gaze was the same warm brown it had always been. He was watching her with a faintly quizzical look. The lyrium markings upon the staff still glowed with a faint blue-white fire, though he seemed unaware of it.

She frowned slightly but turned away.

 

Hawke stared through the telescope, his gaze obsessively fixed upon the small, fleet schooner as she raced on ahead under full sail. Even at this distance, he could plainly see she'd lost her foremast somewhere - possibly that severe squall they'd only barely weathered themselves; even so, the _Mage's Pride_ was still swift, and though the _Kirkwall Tern_ was ploughing on under full sail, it would still take some time to overtake her. They were close enough now that Hawke could just about make out the small figures upon her deck – in particular, the blond man who leaned upon the rear rail of the quarterdeck, a black staff in his hands, his head bowed.

He turned to glance at the Starkhaven galleon that surged onwards, powered on by acres of pristine white canvas. The _Pride of Starkhaven_ was a beautiful ship, there was no denying it; her lines smooth and trim, all tackle on deck neatly stowed, her paintwork in the Starkhaven colours bright and gleaming – right down to the matching ballistae on her decks. The ports on her lower decks were also open, the tips of loaded javelins glinting in each dark opening. Hawke had counted them twice over; fifteen loaded ballistae, armed and ready to wreak carnage on any ship that ventured into range.

He could see templars upon the deck, too, but his attention was drawn to the figure in shining white armour who stood upon the forecastle of the _Pride of Starkhaven_ much as Hawke, himself was doing, staring ahead through a spyglass. Hawke knew even at this distance that it was Sebastian, Prince Vael, who stood there like a pristine white statue, his attention focussed upon the drifting Orlesian vessel that lay between them and the _Mage's Pride_. Sebastian had spared the _Kirkwall Tern_ only one glance, that Hawke had seen, before returning his attention to his prey. Hawke had ordered their colours run up, asking Captain Morrow to signal an invitation to the Prince to repair upon board, but there had been no answering signal from the Starkhaven vessel.

Hawke sighed, and turned and walked back towards the main deck. He leaned upon the fo'c'sle rail and glanced down to the miserable figure hunched over the weather deck rail.

Fenris had completely failed to gain his sea legs the entire time they'd been at sea since setting off from Kirkwall. He could barely keep even water down, and as Hawke watched, he retched again, clutching the wooden rail as he doubled over. A passing sailor patted the elf's shoulder sympathetically; the elf was feeling so wretched he barely flinched at the unwanted touch. As Hawke began to make his way down the stairs to the main deck, Fenris turned with his back to the rail and slumped down into a sitting position upon the deck.

He tilted his head back wearily and stared up at the warrior as Hawke paused and hunkered down beside him.

“How are you feeling?” Hawke asked quietly.

“I have ... felt better,” said the elf dourly. “Are we any closer?”

Hawke nodded. “The Captain reckons we should catch up to them in about two hours or so - less, if the wind holds – and assuming nothing blows up between now and then.”

“And Sebastian?”

Hawke sighed. “He's still standing at the front of his ship, ignoring us. He didn't respond to our flags beyond maybe a single glance.”

“Are we even certain the mage is still with Isabela?” asked Fenris dourly, his face waxy and with a faintly greenish hue beneath the tan.

Hawke nodded and held out the telescope. “Come and see for yourself,” he suggested. Fenris raised an eyebrow as Hawke rose to his feet and held out his hand. Then with a look of determination, he grasped Hawke's wrist and allowed the warrior to grasp his in return and haul him up to his feet.

Once up upon the fo'c'sle deck, Hawke handed Fenris the telescope and the elf leaned upon the front rail over the prow, setting it to his eye and focussing it upon the figure who had drawn Hawke's attention.

The mage was leaning against the railing of the quarterdeck at the rear of the _Mage's Pride_ , clad in a white silk shirt of what looked like Rivaini design. The billowed sleeves were pulled tight at his wrists by leather vambraces; he wore a black leather tunic with high collar trimmed in gold, belted tight around his waist. His long blond hair was tied back with a black silk scarf. It was hard to tell with the apostate's head bowed like that, staring down into the _Mage's Pride's_ wake, but Fenris thought he saw a hint of a beard. The man's skin was tanned dark by the sun, and the golden locks longer and paler than he remembered. If not for the faint tug of his lyrium brands, he might not have recognised Anders.

He felt his heart begin to beat faster at sight of the mage, his breath catching in his throat. “ _Mi amatus_...” he breathed faintly.

“Fenris?” asked Hawke, hesitantly. Fenris reluctantly lowered the telescope, tearing his eyes away from the sight of the apostate to see the human warrior regarding him with a strange, inscrutable look in his eyes. “Do you think...?” Hawke began, his voice faltering and tailing off. Fenris stared back towards the _Mage's Pride_ , then at Hawke again.

“Sebastian will kill him,” said the elf quietly. “Are you still content merely to look upon Anders, as you told Varric, or will you aid him?”

“I'm not about to stand by and watch Sebastian destroy the only man I've ever loved,” said Hawke quietly. “I'm just afraid....” he turned away, face shadowed by guilt.

Fenris regarded him, his face neutral, then glanced over at the _Pride of Starkhaven_. “She is overtaking us,” he remarked. “She will reach the Orlesian vessel first.”

Hawke shook his head. “The Orlesian ship is unimportant,” he dismissed with a wave of a hand. “A decoy at best.”

“Or maybe not,” replied Fenris. “I feel... something familiar.”

“Magic?” asked Hawke, frowning.

“I think so. Though... I've felt this only once before... it's like a gathering storm. I feel....” He broke off and frowned at the Orlesian vessel drifting there. Then his eyes widened as he felt the lyrium suddenly singing, in answer to the call of a sudden surge of power deep within the drifting hull. “Hawke... order the captain to steer away from that boat!”

“What-” began Hawke; Fenris rounded upon him with a glare. “Now, if you value your life! It's a trap!” snarled the elf.

With a nod, Hawke turned and vaulted over the fo'c'sle railing and sprinted along the deck, yelling for the captain as Fenris turned back to the rail, lifting the telescope to his eye once more. He could feel the magic singing to the lyrium in his skin like hot knives in his flesh; through the spyglass he could see Anders straightening, the brilliant flare of gathering energies blazing fiercely from the top of the staff and gathering about his hands. He could feel an answering flare of power coming from within the Orlesian ship even as the _Pride of Starkhaven_ bore down upon it; it could only have been maybe a quarter of a mile away from the drifting vessel.

And then the sea exploded.

 

 

Anders watched the Starkhaven ship slowly closing the distance between her and the drifting boat. When he estimated there was no more than perhaps a quarter of a mile between them, he bowed his head for a moment, gathering the nerve for what he knew he had to do.

He dared not think how many men must be aboard that ship. Hundreds maybe. Templars, almost certainly – but also innocent crewmen. He closed his eyes briefly; he did not want to be the cause of any more needless deaths. But if he didn't do this, far more than his own life would be at stake.

Shaking his head, he began to draw upon the magic, and he felt an answering surge from within the staff as he channelled the power. Raising his hands, lifting the staff in his right hand, he began the sequence of gestures that would focus and direct the energies, murmuring the words of the incantation quietly as he brought his hands closer together, feeling the power build. He lifted his hands above his head, the energy crackling audibly as it danced around him, coalescing into a nimbus of brilliant blue-white fire.

The crew of the _Mage's Pride_ paused and turned to stare, watching awestruck as high in the sky, dark storm clouds gathered, beginning to swirl ominously above the drifting Orlesian ship. Anders' voice rose in the suddenly still air, ringing out loud and clear over the water as he chanted arcane words. Isabela pushed forward past the transfixed sailors and took the stairs to the quarterdeck two at a time, just in time to reach the upper deck as Anders cried out the final word and then slammed the staff down in a blaze of sparks, the leaf-shaped blade at its foot sinking deep into the wooden deck in an explosion of coruscating light.

Simultaneously, a beam of light sprang up from the centre of the Orlesian vessel. The ship itself seemed to be drawn up the column of light, slowly turning until the prow faced the oncoming Starkhaven ship.

And then it exploded.

A shock-wave of hot air pulsed out from the brilliant explosion; the sails of the _Mage's Pride_ seemed to crack in the wind as the ship lurched then began to surge forward under the blow. Isabela stared in silent horror as a vast wave of scalding water rose into the air behind the airborne shock-wave and raced towards them faster than they could ever hope to outrun it.

Yet even as she instinctively cowered back against the quarterdeck rail, Anders stood firm, lifting his staff up above his head horizontally, his voice calling out powerfully once more; and even as the first steaming droplets struck the deck around him with a hiss, he threw up his other hand to grasp the staff and a surge of power burst forth from his slender form, enveloping the ship in a shimmering haze of light as he shielded them from the superheated wave, which broke harmlessly over the magical barrier. Inside, it grew hot and humid, but not one drop of the scalding water touched the ship. Anders staggered as the wave impacted his shield, but remained upon his feet.

Isabela threw herself forward but halted as she came to stand beside him, not quite daring to touch him as she stared up into his face. Anders' eyes were clenched tightly shut, perspiration trickling down his face as he held the shield by willpower alone, protecting them from the aftermath of the explosion.

Isabela stared at where the Orlesian ship had been, but there was nothing left; not even floating sticks of matchwood.

The two ships pursuing them hadn't fared much better, from what she could see. The Starkhaven ship had born the brunt of the blow; her fine white sails had been ripped to shreds, and both her fore and main masts had shattered; remains of the masts and yardarms were tangled up in a mess of stays and rigging. Most of the ballistae on the upper deck had either been swept away entirely or else piled up like so much discarded driftwood against the quarterdeck. Even without her spyglass, Isabela could see fires burning here and there aboard the once-fine vessel. It was a wonder the galleon was still afloat.

Isabela shifted her gaze over to the Kirkwall brig, who seemed to have fared a little better. She had been approaching the _Mage's Pride_ directly, and so had been on an oblique course when the explosion went off. She appeared to have been caught broadside in the act of turning away; she had been blown hard to her port side and was listing over on that side, but as Isabela watched she righted herself; sailors were busy putting out fires in the rigging and sails on her starboard side, and she was missing most of her starboard rail on the main deck, but otherwise appeared to have escaped relatively unscathed. Even now, she was coming about to head in direct pursuit of the _Mage's Pride_.

As Isabela stared back at Anders, he swayed, lowering his arms, though he clung tightly to the staff as though his life depended upon it. The shield flickered than faded as Anders released his hold upon the magic. He fell heavily to his knees, eyes half-lidded, then slumped sideways onto the deck, the staff cradled to his chest.

The lyrium roses on the haft of the staff flickered, then slowly went dark.


	12. Chapter 12

Hawke picked himself up slowly from the deck, wincing at the pain of scalded flesh along the left side of his face. As he glanced around, he could see sailors doing likewise, scrambling to douse those few fires in the rigging and the sails that hadn't been quenched by the scalding wave. He glanced to his left and was dully surprised to see the entire starboard rail of the main deck had been torn clean away, together with several of the deck ballistae.

He turned around slowly and stared up at the fo'c'sle; Fenris had been standing at the prow of the ship as Hawke had gone to order the captain to turn the ship; as the warrior stared up at upper deck, he could see no sign of the elf, and his heart sank as he began to run for'ard. He pulled himself up the stairs, hastening as his gaze swept the fore deck and spied the crumpled form of the elf lying against the port rail.

He threw himself down upon his knees next to Fenris. The elf lay upon his back, face turned away towards the railings, his left arm trailing down between two broken uprights, his right arm flung up above his head. He seemed to have been spared the scalding spray, but as Hawke carefully turned Fenris' face away from the railing, he frowned at the blood staining the snow white hair. An ugly contusion marred the elf's left temple, the bruising dark beneath the tanned skin which was split and bleeding.

“Fenris? Wake up Fenris!” said Hawke urgently. The elf did not stir; his face pale despite the tan. Hawke muttered a curse under his breath. “Fenris!” He stared down at the still elf, then gently he straightened the limp limbs before gathering the slender unconscious man up in his arms. He struggled to his feet, marvelling at how Fenris was deceptively heavy; though slim, he was strong, and his muscles dense.

He carried Fenris back aft towards the cabins, Captain Morrow meeting him halfway down the main deck.

“There are healing potions in the chirurgeon's cabin,” said Morrow without preamble, gesturing to two of his men. Hawke stared at the two men then down at Fenris' pale face; the elf seemed somehow smaller, younger with an air of vulnerability about him that Hawke would ordinarily never have guessed at. Hawke felt strangely reluctant to give up his burden, but as Morrow gestured to the two men, he reluctantly nodded as he surrendered the elf to the two sailors who bore the unconscious Fenris swiftly away below deck, then turned back to the captain. “Your orders, Champion?” asked Morrow.

“Same as before,” replied Hawke. “We pursue the _Mage's Pride_.”

Morrow stared at Hawke. “After this?” he exclaimed, gesturing at the deck around them where men worked to put the ship to rights. “Are you mad, man?”

“Captain, consider the power required for doing something like that. Believe me, the mage who cast that spell will be drained of mana right now and completely incapable of posing a further threat to us for several hours to come. Do you think we can catch them in two or three hours?”

The captain glanced up at the sails, gauging the wind, then nodded. “Easily. She's missing a mast, whereas we still have full sail.”

“Then come about and give chase,” ordered Hawke. The captain regarded him neutrally, pursing his lips. “And the _Pride of Starkhaven_?”

Both men turned as one and stared across the expanse of sea separating the two ships.

The _Pride of Starkhaven_ was in a sorry state. The damage was clear to the eye at this distance; she was listing badly to port, her foremast smashed beyond all hope of repair, little more than a tangled mess of spars, rigging and tattered sailcloth. The mainmast had fared little better; it had snapped off just above the main sail, the topgallant shredded into tatters and burning, the rigging and ropes fouling the mainsail and stays hopelessly. Even the mizzenmast had not escaped unscathed, its topsail scorched and topgallant torn.

All the ballistae on the main deck had been swept and smashed into a pile of debris and detritus against the quarterdeck. Corpses of templars and sailors alike were crushed into the wreckage and scattered over the main deck like discarded dolls tossed by some monstrous hand. But nowhere could Hawke see the white form of the Prince of Starkhaven. Perhaps Sebastian had been swept overboard by the wave that had decimated his ship and crew.

He wondered if their positions were reversed, what would Sebastian have done? Would he have gone to the aid of the stricken ship – or would he have ignored them like so much chaff on the wind, sailing on and leaving them to fend for themselves?

He bowed his head in thought for a moment, then glanced back at the _Mage's Pride_. “We follow the _Mage's Pride_ ,” he decided, quashing down the feeling of guilt inside. “We will return and render aid once we have Anders on board.”

Morrow regarded him thoughtfully, his gaze flicking from the stricken vessel then back to Hawke. He could see for himself that the _Pride_ was in dire straits; she likely would not remain afloat much longer without aid. But he merely gave a brief nod before turning on his heel and striding aft once more, bawling out orders to his crew.

Hawke felt the ship's deck lurch as she came slowly about then slowly but surely began to pick up speed as she ran before the wind. Hawke strode slowly back towards the prow, fighting the urge to go below deck and check on Fenris.

They would have Anders yet. He gripped the railing and stared at the schooner that sped on ahead of them as they trailed in her wake. After a moment, he reached for the spyglass at his belt, training it once more upon the quarterdeck. He could see the figure of Isabela pacing back and forth, but could see no sign of the mage.

 

* * *

 

Isabela stared down at the unconscious mage, then back at the Kirkwall brig as she came on towards them. A hot, strong wind still blew steadily, bearing the _Mage's Pride_ onwards; but unlike their own ship, Hawke's vessel still had her full complement of masts, and as Isabela watched, she mounted every last scrap of canvas, every square foot unfurled to its fullest to take advantage of the wind. It could only be a matter of an hour or two at most before they drew level with the _Mage's Pride_. Anders' trap had dealt a grievous blow to one of their pursuers, but not both; and whilst it would be a long while before the Starkhaven ship would be in a position to trouble them again, sadly it had not hindered the Kirkwall vessel more than momentarily. Through her spyglass, Isabela could discern that whilst she had lost several ballistae, more than enough remained on her deck to pose no small threat to the Mage's Pride should it come to a fight.

Isabela scowled. She wasn't about to give up just yet. She called to her crew, and two men came forward to gather up the unconscious mage between him and bear him below to the cabin whilst other men sprang to follow her orders, jury-rigging as much canvas as they could and unfurling the main sail and topgallants on both the main and mizzen masts.

The Rivaini pirate paced the quarterdeck. A part of her wanted to go below and check on Anders, but her captain's heart kept her on deck, where she could be in control and keep an eye on things.

And she still had a few tricks up her sleeve. She knew these waters well; better, she'd wager, than the Kirkwall ship following in her wake. She paused in her pacing to pull out her spyglass and train it aft upon the prow of the other ship.

She was closer now; close enough that Isabela could make out the lettering about her prow, below the graceful figurehead of a white seabird with outstretched wings. The _Kirkwall Tern_ ; it seemed an apt name. She was a trim vessel, neat and clean of line, only a little the worse for wear; and like the bird she was named for, she skimmed lightly over the waves under full sail; a beautiful sight in the late afternoon sun which washed her canvas in golden and rosy hues.

Pretty as a picture, but belying her deadliness. And with all canvas set to the wind she would overhaul the _Mage's Pride_ all too soon. Isabela could clearly see Hawke standing upon the fo'c'sle, golden sunlight glinting off his armour and the telescope he held in his hands – watching her back, no doubt. She gave him a jaunty wave which the warrior did not return; as she turned away, she idly wondered if Fenris were with him, and if so where he was.

Isabela leaned over the quarterdeck rail. “Serah Hollick!” she called. Her first mate turned from giving directions to three men. “Captain?”

“A word if you please!”

Hollick dismissed the other men then climbed up the stairs to the quarterdeck. He began to smile as he saw his captain's grin.

“You've a plan then, Captain?” he grinned back.

“Of course I have,” replied the Rivaini. “I always have a plan....”

 

* * *

 

Fenris pushed the chirurgeon aside irritably and sat up.

“Ser Elf, you should be careful, the dangers of concussion-”

“I am well aware of them,” growled the elf as he swung his legs over the edge of the bunk and pushed himself upright. The chirurgeon frowned and placed a hand upon the elf's shoulder; a moment later, he gasped in alarm as Fenris forced him back against the wall of the small cabin where the healer worked, the elf's steel-tipped gauntlet closed threateningly around the man's throat. Fenris leaned in close towards the man, who flinched.

“Do not touch me,” the elf said simply. The man garbled something unintelligible and nodded frantically in acquiescence. Fenris regarded him a moment longer, then abruptly dropped his hand as he turned and stalked away.

He had a raging headache and his stomach was still twisting rebelliously; he did his best to ignore both as he made his way back up towards the deck in search of Hawke. The last thing he remembered, before waking with the bitter taste of a healing potion upon his tongue, was the deck suddenly shifting beneath his feet as the wave threw the ship over on her side; his bare feet had found scant purchase on the slippery wooden boards as the deck canted at an alarming angle. He remembered falling, flinging out an arm to try and catch himself before he could be pitched over the rail, and then a blinding pain in his head followed swiftly by darkness.

Then there had been a moment's panic before he recalled where he was, in which he had lashed out frantically at the face above his that recoiled with a cry of alarm. He had felt almost contrite when he realised that the man shrinking away from him was not that of his hated yet dead master Danarius, but merely the ship's chirurgeon.

He allowed no fleeting sense of guilt to stay his feet as he made his way out into the fresh air of the main deck. He paused a moment at the top of the narrow stairs to glance about; then spying Hawke's familiar figure at the rail of the fore deck, he began to make his way forward.

He could put his unsteady footsteps down to the rolling motion of the deck, but the slight blurring of his vision was not quite so easily dismissed. He paused and steadied himself with a hand upon the haft of a ballista, putting his other hand to his forehead. His head throbbed sickeningly, and for a moment he thought he was going to throw up. He swallowed down his nausea and after a moment he felt able to carry on.

He climbed the stairs slowly, clutching the rail hard as the wooden steps seemed to pitch and shift beneath his feet. Gritting his teeth in determination, he hauled himself up and onwards. He had to pause at the top, his head spinning; he muttered a curse under his breath. This weakness would not do.

“ _Vishante kaffras_....” Hawke turned as he heard the elf swear, and he frowned with concern, crossing the small fo'c'sle deck in a few long paces.

“Fenris, you shouldn't be up. You look bloody awful,” he chided as he reached out a steadying hand towards the swaying elf. Fenris leaned into his support gratefully; his face looked a ghastly colour beneath the dried blood caked down the side of his face. Fenris shook his head.

“It doesn't matter. The _Mage's Pride_ , is she...?”

In answer, Hawke gestured beyond the ship's prow; Fenris followed the gesture and visibly relaxed when he saw the graceful schooner still there ahead of the _Kirkwall Tern_ , all sails to the wind as she strove to out-race them. “Can we catch them?” he asked.

Hawke nodded. “We should overtake them soon if the wind holds, Morrow thinks.”

Fenris took a step forward; Hawke moved with him, a supporting hand around the elf's waist as Fenris leaned upon his shoulder. They returned to the prow rail and Fenris shifted his weight forward onto the rail. He stared keenly at the other vessel, as if by willpower alone he could close the distance between them. Little more than a cable's length separated them; perhaps three hundred yards at most. Fenris glanced up at the _Tern's_ sails impatiently, then back at the _Mage's Pride_.

“I can see Isabela on deck, but where is Anders?” he muttered, narrowing his eyes.

“I don't know,” replied Hawke. “He's not returned on deck whilst I've been watching.”

“Have we signalled to them yet?”

Hawke nodded and gestured to the flags fluttering from the stays. “Captain Morrow ran up the signal for _we come in peace, hove to,_ but they've not answered. I know Isabela's seen it though – at this distance, she cannot possibly miss it.”

“Perhaps she believes us guilty of some deception?” suggested Fenris.

“Wait!” said Hawke, pointing. “Something's going on over there. It looks like they're lowering a boat!”

As Fenris squinted against the setting sun, he struggled to make out what the warrior had seen. It did indeed appear that a boat was being lowered over the side of the main deck of the _Mage's Pride_. A single figure appeared to be sitting aboard; it was hard to make out, with his vision treacherously blurring, but he thought the occupant had blond hair tied back, a staff clutched in his hands.

He glanced at Hawke. “They're giving him up?”

“Maybe he chose to surrender, in the hopes we'd let Isabela go?” suggested Hawke. Fenris frowned as he stared at the figure in the boat, who sat with his head bowed as though in defeat. As they stood watching, the boat was cast away from the side of the ship and immediately dropped astern, the mage making no move to row or steer the boat.

Hawke turned and cupped his hands around his mouth as he bellowed, “Hard a-port! Hard a-port! 'Ware the boat!”

Men scrambled to haul on lines as the helmsman, startled, turned the wheel; other crewmen ran to the remains of the starboard railing with hooks and ropes as the _Tern_ shuddered and heeled to port. There was a sickening crunch as the prow of the ship ploughed mercilessly into the small boat and, with a cry, the mage was thrown into the water.

“Man overboard!” went up the cry, and two sailors with ropes tied around their waists flung themselves into the churning waters.

Then there was shouting and a kerfuffle as ropes were thrown down to the men in the water, one of whom was struggling to keep the head of the blond man above the water. Fenris threw himself recklessly down the stairs to the main deck; something felt wrong about this, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. His head was aching abominably, driving everything out of his head save fear for Anders.

The mage was limp and unconscious as they pulled him on board; Fenris caught a glimpse of soaked, blond hair, black leather tunic and a limp arm in wet silk as the sailors clustered round him. He struggled to push through the press of men, shoving against the sailors who obscured his view.

“Stand back, let us through!” roared Hawke as he forced his way through the throng; Fenris pushed his slender body through the gap that opened up and flung himself down upon his knees beside the man who lay unconscious upon the deck, face turned away from the elf.

Even as he lay hands upon the unconscious man, he knew it was not Anders. There was no magic calling to the lyrium within his skin, and as he turned the unconscious man's head, it was the face of a stranger that greeted his eyes.

“A trick,” growled Hawke angrily.

“A decoy,” answered Fenris. “And we fell for it.”

Hawke stared over the rail at the _Mage's Pride_ and at the widening gap that separated them. He could see the figure of Isabela waving merrily at them, and then pointing upwards as a flag was hoisted up above her head. Snatching up his spyglass, he focussed it upon the signal.

It was a templar flag, stolen no doubt on one of Isabela's many little adventures; the flag had been altered with two additions, however. Beneath Andraste's face, a pair of dainty lace knickers had been stitched, and below that an appliqué of two small brown animals.

“What does it say?” asked Fenris as Hawke groaned.

“A message from Anders, I think,” replied Hawke. “ _'Andraste's knicker-weasels.'_ ”


	13. Chapter 13

Isabela was still grinning as the sun finally set a couple of hours later, painting the vast sky in glorious hues of orange, pink, gold and fire against the darkening blue. She'd stayed on deck until the change of hands, then headed below to her cabin after giving orders for all lamps to be hidden on deck and shrouded below; she didn't want stray light to give their position away to their pursuers.

Anders still lay sprawled upon the bunk where the two crewmen had put him earlier after he'd collapsed upon deck. He lay upon his back, one hand upon his breast, the other laid down by his side. Someone had laid the black staff beside him; his hand rested limply upon the haft. He was deeply asleep; not even snoring, which was unusual for him.

Isabela shrugged and made her way over to her desk. The cook had laid out her evening meal – a hearty stew with bread, some cheese, and a small bowl of fruit. She ignored it all in favour of reaching first for the foaming tankard of ale, taking a hearty drink before turning her attention to the stew.

As she ate, she pulled her charts towards her with one hand, and stared down at them thoughtfully, working out their current position by dead reckoning. She'd go up on deck shortly to work out their position more accurately from the stars. The squall the previous day had driven them far past Estwatch; they'd been tacking to windward of the isle when the storm blew up, and it had taken them far out to sea. She wondered whether the Starkhaven ship had been deliberately tracking her; perhaps it had simply come upon them by sheer bad luck on its way down to Denerim. Hawke was another matter; the _Kirkwall Tern_ had been flying Varric's flag as well as that of the Champion, which meant the dwarf must have betrayed them. That stung more than it should have; after all, if their positions were reversed she'd have given them away without a second thought.

Wouldn't she?

She frowned and reached for her tankard again as she took up her callipers and began her calculations again, then frowned. Maker blast it, she needed more data. Standing up, she headed up towards the deck with the octant to take sightings of the stars.

It was quiet on deck; Hollick stood by the wheel, talking quietly to the helmsman; they both nodded to the captain as she made her way up to the quarterdeck and started to take sightings. She frowned slightly as she checked the readings on the octant.

“Captain?”

“We're far east of where we're supposed to be,” replied Isabela, still frowning. She took another sighting, then looked up at the sails, gauging the wind, before checking the compass.

“Come about 120° to port, Geraint, to the north-west. We'll make for Llomerynn.”

“Aye, Captain,” answered the helmsman as he began to turn the wheel and Hollick started to shout orders to the crew, who scrambled to obey, men swarming up the shrouds as the ship heeled over to leeward and began to come about.

Isabela returned back below to the cabin. She spared Anders only a brief glance as she made her way back to her chair and began to plot out and chart their new course, from time to time popping a piece of fruit into her mouth, washing it down with ale.

They should make Llomerynn in about three days if the wind held to its present course. She tapped her lip thoughtfully with her brass callipers as she pondered the chart. What would Hawke do? It was dark now; would he assume they had continued on their original course? With any luck, turning onto such a completely different heading would mean they could slip past the _Kirkwall Tern_ in the dark and be away scot-free by morning.

Llomerynn was just a direction to aim for right now; it was as good a place as any to put in for fresh water. They still had a full cargo to offload, but there would be little point in trying to sell it in Llomerynn. No, they'd take on water and fresh victuals, but Antiva City would be their final destination. She'd find a buyer easily enough there for fine Orlesian wine, spices and silks, and she could pick up a fresh crew there and be on her way in a day or two if need be. Easy enough to pick up a trading contract, maybe running Antivan wine down to Amaranthine. Anders had been talking recently about wanting to stop down that way soon anyway; something about a friend looking after something precious to him. She grinned as she thought about what sort of things could count as “precious” to an apostate mage who by all accounts had pretty much shagged his way around most of Ferelden during his various escapes. She glanced over at Anders, and the grin died.

Anders hadn't moved once the entire time she'd been in the cabin; he still lay in the exact same position as when she'd come down a couple of hours ago. His face was pale beneath the tan, his eyes closed. His chest barely stirred with each breath. Isabela frowned, a growing sense of misgiving prompting her to rise and approach the bunk where he lay, beneath the curtained window of the cabin.

Isabela sank down to sit upon the edge of the wide double bunk and reached out to cover the hand upon his chest with her own; she frowned at how icy his skin felt to the touch.

“Anders?”

The mage did not stir. Save for the faint rise and fall of his chest, there was no sign he lived. Isabela leaned forward and gently felt his brow with her fingers; the skin was cold and slightly clammy.

This wasn't normal. She'd seen Anders countless times in the past exhaust himself spellcasting, pushing himself past the limits of his endurance until he collapsed. The sleep that resulted was always a normal sleep; he could usually be roused after a couple of hours. This protracted unconsciousness was not normal; not this strange stillness, the lack of pallor, the cold chill to his skin. This was something more than normal exhaustion, even for the former Grey Warden.

“Anders!” She grasped his shoulders and shook him roughly; his head rolled limply to one side, long golden strands of hair falling across his closed eyes. She brushed it back automatically, then took his face between her warm brown hands and kissed him long, full and hard. His slack lips parted easily beneath the pressure of her tongue, but he did not return the kiss or stir. Even his mouth seemed cold, and there was a strange, almost metallic taste to his breath. Sitting back, she frowned, then slapped him hard across the face. “Anders, wake up!” she demanded.

His cheek reddened, a bruise forming where her hand had struck it, but he lay motionless beneath her. She stared down at him in frustration. She gently stroked the darkening bruise with her fingertips, feeling slightly guilty over having struck him. “Damn, you, mage – this is a fine time to be laying around!” She stood up and paced around the foot of the bunk, arms folded over her breasts as she strode back and forth then paused, staring back down at Anders.

The lyrium roses on the staff were glowing faintly, and Isabela felt a disquietening chill run down her spine as she stared at it. The glow seemed to pulse; like a slow, steady heartbeat. Isabela moved quickly to Anders' side and reached down to check the pulse at his throat, and felt the chill through her deepen as she felt it beating evenly in time to the pulses of light from the staff. She stared at the lyrium roses and could not quite stifle a shiver.

She knew better than to touch the staff. She drew back and stared from the staff to the unconscious Anders, then back to the staff.

“Damn it, Anders. What have you done now?” she muttered.


	14. Chapter 14

Fenris glanced around in confusion. He appeared to be in Anders' clinic, but something seemed not entirely right. The light was strange; almost with a faint greenish hue.

He turned around and glanced back down between the rows of cots where people lay; the sick and wounded, all being cared for in the Darktown clinic. It wasn't quite right though; it seemed as large and spacious as he had last seen the clinic with Hawke, yet the walls were plain wood, the floor bare earth and straw, the cots old and shabby, the blankets threadbare and worn.

A figure was moving slowly down the clinic, going from bed to bed. The back was bowed with countless burdens, the feathered shoulders slumped, the dirty blond hair dishevelled; loose strands had worked their way free of the leather hair tie and as Fenris watched, a careworn hand brushed them back out of the dark amber eyes.

“ _Mi Amatus?_ ” breathed Fenris, not believing the evidence of his own eyes. The figure laid his hands on the sick child in the bed he had paused by, and the faint blue nimbus of healing magic glowed around his hands before sinking into the boy. The healer smiled sadly down at the child, setting a finger to his lips in a gesture for silence then turned away to the next bed.

“Anders?” Fenris said, a little louder. The healer straightened and glanced back at him, his hands falling to hang limply at his sides as he regarded the elf silently.

Fenris took a step towards the mage, then another. Then he ran towards Anders, lifting his arms to fling them about the mage....

And stumbled through him as though he were merely a wraith. He staggered then caught himself, turning back towards Anders, even as the blond apostate turned back towards him, his eyes sorrowful.

“Anders?” said Fenris, fear rising like a stranglehold about his throat, a chill fist around his heart and a heavy feeling in his guts. Anders shook his head, then raise one hand to point towards the small curtained-off room where he had slept. A blue glow shone from behind the curtain.

As Fenris slowly walked towards the alcove, Anders drew back, still pointing, as Fenris reached out his hand to draw back the curtain.

The light came from the staff hanging upon the wall; but instead of the familiar staff belonging to Anders that Fenris had last seen hanging there, it was a strange, black staff he had never seen before. The haft was made of a black wood, bound with cord about the centre. The foot of the staff was shod with a leaf-shaped blade of some dark metal, and the head was set with a clear white crystal set within thorned vines of tarnished silver. An inlaid pattern of lyrium in the shape of roses glowed around the base of the crystal, around the top of the staff, and it was from there that the blue glow was coming from. As Fenris narrowed his eyes at it, the glow grew in intensity until the light was blinding.

From behind he felt Anders leaning in close behind him; a scent of herbs and lyrium, a faint suggestion of feathers brushing his cheek. A familiar voice.

“ _Help me..._.”

 

Fenris' eyes flew open to be blinded by a brilliant silvery-white light. He threw his arm up across his eyes reflexively, but the light seemed to only intensify much as it had in the dream; it took him a few moments to realise that the glow came from his lyrium brands, and it was only with a supreme effort of will that he was able to fight back down the power until the lyrium glow faded and the lines were inert and white, quiescent within his flesh once more.

 _Just a dream. That's all it had been._ He exhaled slowly, then concentrated on slowing his breathing and heartbeat, trying to relax enough to sink back into sleep. But sleep would not come.

Fenris tossed and turned in his bunk. The seasickness had finally abated, allowing him to cautiously eat a small meal that thankfully had thus far stayed down earlier, but it was not queasiness that kept him awake now. Yet sleep still eluded him. He stared at the wooden ceiling of the small cabin he was sharing with Hawke, and quietly sighed.

Snores came from the bunk below his; whatever Hawke may feel about the whole situation, evidently it posed no impediment to his rest, and the bright light from Fenris' brands had not disturbed him.

Fenris sighed again and rolled over onto his side. He was bodily tired, but his mind would simply not switch off but instead persisted in running around in circles like a mabari puppy after its own tail; the dream was but one of many concerns chasing round incessantly through his tired brain.

Isabela's decoy had worked; it had thrown them off course, allowing the _Mage's Pride_ to take a lead which by sunset they still had not managed to catch up upon, despite the _Kirkwall Tern's_ advantage in terms of greater square footage of sail. She was running before the wind, whereas they'd heeled over hard to port and lost valuable speed and distance as she raced to their leeward. Isabela was smart enough to run dark – and the _Mage's Pride_ had dark grey sails that blended in perfectly with the darkness. Deliberate, of course; dark sails were a decided advantage both at night but also during the day – dark surfaces, after all, would not catch and reflect the light the way a white sail would, giving one's position away. The Mage's Pride could change course in the night and pass them with no-one the wiser.

And now this strange dream of Anders in the clinic. Perhaps it were just his own anxieties at play, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Anders was in danger, but Fenris had no idea where or how, and he had no idea how to find him. There was nothing he could do.

It frustrated the elf to be so helpless. He was no sailor; he didn't know the first thing about boats save that he hated and loathed them, and he longed to set his feet upon solid ground again. How long would this wretched wild goose chase go on for? Particularly if, as he suspected, this particular wily goose had already managed to give them the slip.

He sighed again, then gave up, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bunk. This was ridiculous and he was achieving nothing by lying here, tossing and turning whilst Hawke snored on, oblivious. And really, there was nothing so aggravating when plagued by insomnia than the snores of another who was not similarly inflicted themselves; Hawke's snoring seemed to be positively taunting him over his inability to sleep. If he had to lie here listening to that noise any longer he would be sorely tempted to smother the warrior with his own pillow.

He dropped lightly to the floor, his bare feet silent upon the wooden floorboards. He glanced down at the sleeping Hawke, who had not stirred. The elf reached for his tunic and tugged it on before donning his leggings. No point in bothering with armour; he feared no attack from any man aboard, and the crewman from the Mage's Pride who had duped them all with his superficial resemblance to Anders was safely locked up below in a room down in the hold that had been converted into a ship's brig.

After a last glance back at the still-snoring Hawke, Fenris quietly left the cabin and made his way up on deck.

The ship was never entirely silent, even at night. Though the men were quiet, still there was the creaking of wood, the yardarms shifting slightly, wood groaning as the tension in stays and shrouds changed, the friction of the blacks and tackle, the flapping of canvas in the night wind, the soft sussuration of the waves all around them and the wind singing softly through the rigging. The ship was a living, breathing thing, cradling them all within her, bearing them up and onwards, quietly forging her way steadily and steadfastly before the wind under the starlit sky.

Fenris found the quiet sounds of the ship faintly comforting now, though he would never had said as much to anyone else, not even Hawke. Perhaps he would have shared it with Anders though. He had watched the mage through the telescope the previous day; his movements about the _Mage's Pride_ had all spoken of a man who had found his freedom and now saw that freedom about to be stripped away from him. His were the movements of a man accustomed to walking upon a pitching, rolling deck; a man used to being at sea, his skin tanned and his hair bleached by long days on the open sea under the bright sun. Anders was a perceptive, empathic man; he would likely have understood what Fenris could not fully put into words.

The elf walked slowly along the deck, a silent ghost in black with bare feet, the wind ruffling gently through his white hair. He glanced up at the foremast as he drew near, and on impulse he decided to climb the rigging to the fighting top.

Lithe and limber as he was, climbing the rigging was almost as simple as walking up stairs for a lesser man, and scaling the shrouds was an easy feat. He made short work of the ascent and was soon standing upon the small platform at the top of the foresail. He glanced around, then crossed over to the narrow rigging that lead to the upper top above the fore topsail, just below the fore topgallant. In a few short minutes he was balanced easily on the small circular platform, one hand resting lightly upon the jib.

It was almost like being up in the branches of a very tall tree. Not that he'd spent much of his life in trees; city elves were far less nature-orientated than their Dalish cousins, and Minrathous was not the greenest of cities, it had to be said. But if he closed his eyes, the swaying beneath his feet could almost be the movement of some great old oak, the soft sound of the ocean the rushing of wind through the branches, the creaking sounds of the mast and yardarms the shifting of great oaken limbs.

He opened his eyes and stared out into the darkness. From here, it was hard to tell sea from night sky; one blended and blurred seamlessly into the other. There could be a hundred ships out there in the darkness and he would never have known; the merest crescent of moon high in the night sky provided little illumination over the dark oily swells of the sea.

The ship shifted, tacking into the wind, and Fenris realised that at some point in the past few hours the wind had backed around to blow from the south-east. He frowned, pondering. Would Isabela be continuing this way also, tacking into then away from the wind even as they must do now? It would make more sense for her to turn and run with the wind, surely? In this darkness, she could slip past them and they would be none the wiser until morning, by which time she could be many miles away and gone from sight.

A brief movement caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. He turned, expecting to see one of the sailors perhaps, come to trim the sails or whatever it was that sailors did up here in the rigging amongst this great canopy of canvas sails.

He could make out a dark figure of a man, sitting astride the yardarm, face turned away so that it appeared a shadowed profile, staring out at the sea. Fenris frowned; it was hard to make him out clearly, but he did not appear to be dressed like any of the sailors on board. The shape was all wrong to be Hawke, too – and Fenris did not believe the warrior would be capable of climbing so stealthily as to make it onto the yardarm of the topsail without the elf noticing. Nor did Hawke possess hair long enough to pull back into a ponytail.

As he stared at the mysterious figure, it turned and stared back at him. Fenris could make out a glimpse of blond hair. The night wind ruffled the feathers upon the man's shoulders. Fenris' eyes widened. It couldn't be...!

“Anders?” he breathed.

The figure did not speak, but merely regarded him in silence before pointing back towards leeward. Then the blond head turned to look at him, as if to see if he understood. Starlight glinted off the golden hoop through one ear and reflected faintly in the dark brown eyes; eyes that regarded him with sadness, much as they had in the dream.

Fenris took a hesitant step towards the silent mage, then glanced in the direction he pointed in. He could see nothing but the empty darkness however. He turned back to question the mage -

And found he was alone.

 

* * *

 

Fenris shook Hawke awake roughly. The warrior was instantly awake and reaching for his sword as the elf stepped back.

“Fenris? What is it?” he asked as he sat up, throwing back the blankets as he swung his legs down to the floor.

“We have to turn around right now,” said Fenris. “They've given us the slip. You have to make the captain turn the boat around now.”

“Ship, not boat,” replied Hawke absently as he reached for his boots. He didn't question how Fenris knew; after so many years working together, if Fenris said the _Mage's Pride_ had given them the slip then that was good enough for him. Stamping his feet down into his boots, he tugged on his tunic and belted on his sword before nodding at the elf to lead the way.

He noticed immediately that the wind had shifted as they went up on deck; it was fiercer, brisker, tugging at his shirtsleeves and the hem of his tunic and ruffling through his hair as he followed the elf up to the quarterdeck. Captain Morrow seemed surprised to see them.

“Captain, we need to turn around,” said Hawke without preamble.

“Turn? Where to?” replied Morrow with a glance to the helmsman. In answer, Fenris pointed leewards, downwind. Morrow raised an eyebrow in surprise, looking to Hawke for confirmation. Hawke nodded firmly. Morrow shrugged; they were the paying passengers and his ship was chartered to them through Varric Tethras, so what they said went, within certain limits. If it wasn't putting him, his ship or his crew in personal danger then which direction they went in was entirely up to them; if they wanted to chase ghosts on the wind, that was none of his business.

He gave the order to the helmsman to come about; Fenris and Hawke made their way forwards to the prow of the ship as Morrow began to shout orders to the crew and the ship slowly began to turn, heeling over on her port side as she turned to leeward and the wind caught then filled out the sails with a crack of canvas as they belled taut under the strong wind.

“So, going to tell me why we're doubling back on ourselves?” asked Hawke conversationally as he leaned forward upon the rail.

“You would not believe me,” replied Fenris tersely as he rested a hand on the stanchion.

“Try me,” suggested Hawke. His expression was open and curious; after a moment, Fenris nodded and described the mysterious figure upon the yardarm. He carefully omitted the dream that had disturbed him into wakefulness, or the expression of sadness he had seen in the apparition's eyes; the way it had seemed almost about to speak before it vanished like smoke upon the wind or a shadow before the dawn.

“And you're sure it was Anders?” Hawke asked, when Fenris had finished.

“I am certain of it,” replied Fenris as he stared out at the dark, windswept sea before them. Hawke followed his gaze as he pondered.

“Anders appearing like a ghost ... strange. And trying to guide us... to follow him? But why?”

“I do not know,” replied Fenris quietly. “I am... uneasy as to what this portends.”

Hawke dropped his gaze to his hands upon the rail. After a while he straightened.

“We won't be able to see anything until daybreak,” he said with a groan as he stretched, his back popping. “We should get some more sleep.”

“I shall stay here a while,” Fenris demurred.

“Suit yourself,” replied Hawke as he turned away with a nod and made his way back down below.

Fenris stared out into the darkness and did not answer.

 

* * *

 

Bran walked between the rows of cots beside Anwen, the younger of the two apostate healers working at the clinic. Anwen was doing the final rounds of the evening; they both conversed very quietly as Anwen murmured her reports on each case.

They both started in surprise when a young boy aged perhaps eight or nine suddenly sat up and stared at them. “Where's the other man?” he asked curiously.

Bran and Anwen stared at each other; not two hours ago, the child had been unconscious with a raging fever that would not abate. Yet now his eyes were clear and bright, his face no longer flushed with fever or trace of perspiration upon his brow. Anwen approached the boy and sat down on the edge of his cot, reaching out to check the boy's forehead before taking his slender wrist to check his pulse.

“What man do you mean, Poul?” she asked him gently as Bran came to stand beside her, staring down at the somehow-cured child.

“The blond man,” Poul replied guilelessly. “With the ponytail and the feathers.”

Anwen glanced up at Bran, her eyes wide.

“Poul, there's no-one else here but Anwen and I. Where did you see this blond man?”

“He came and healed me,” said Poul. “He put his hands on me and there was a blue light, and then I felt well again. Where is he?”

Anwen stared at the boy, speechless.


	15. Chapter 15

Isabela stared down at the unconscious mage, arms wrapped around herself as she brooded over this latest turn of events.

She'd been around enough magical artifacts in her time to make her wary of touching the staff with her bare hand. Whatever enchantment it had upon it didn't transmit through skin-to-skin contact, at least; she'd touched Anders enough to establish that. Yet that didn't mean she was reckless enough to touch it with her bare hand herself.

She unsheathed one of her daggers and tentatively poked the staff with it. Nothing happened. Emboldened by this, she nudged the staff away out from beneath Anders' limp hand, then watched carefully.

No flash of light from the staff – and no immediate sign of reaction from Anders. Isabela breathed out a sigh of tension, then turned her attention back to the staff. It was still glowing where it lay, an inch or two away from Anders' hand. With a deliberate flick of the wrist, she rolled the staff across to the other side of the double bunk.

Anders' empty hand clenched closed, as though searching for the staff, then he frowned slightly, though his eyes did not open. Isabela leaned over him and gently stroked the side of his face. The frown eased and his lips parted with a faint sigh before he grew still once more.

Shaking her head, Isabela pulled away and stared over at the staff where it glowed, balefully – or so it seemed to the Rivaini woman. She turned away and rummaged around in a sea chest, coming up with a large heavy cloak. Hefting it thoughtfully, she strode around to the other side of the bed. She laid a fold of cloth over the staff then hesitantly prodded the staff through it. Again, nothing. She grinned triumphantly and through the cloak over the staff, wrapping it up until it was entirely swathed inside the cloak, then carefully stowed it away in a large trunk.

Satisfied that the staff was out of the way and safe for the time being, Isabela turned her attention back to Anders. She sank down onto the edge of the bunk near Anders' feet and set about unlacing his boots before slowly tugging them off one after the other. She left his pants and shirt be, but carefully took off his leather tunic. Then with a bit of tugging and pushing, she managed to get him settled beneath the covers. He did not react as she man-handled him into the bed, rolled over onto his side, cheek cushioned by the pillow. Then she dowsed the hooded lantern on the desk before slipping into the bunk and spooning up to Anders, holding him close as she nestled her head against his neck.

She drifted slowly away into sleep but it was an uneasily, restless sleep. It seemed that almost immediately she was plunged into strange dreams; and Anders haunted every one, his soft brown eyes sorrowful as he watched her. He seemed to be silently pleading, one hand reaching out to her in silent entreaty.

The first rays of the sun peeking through gaps in the curtains over the cabin windows startled her into wakefulness. She lay still for a while, listening to the reassuring sounds of the ship and the peaceful breathing of the man in her arms before reluctantly pulling herself away from Anders. He still lay in the same position she had placed him in. Gently she rolled him over onto his back so she could better look upon him in the warm glow of dawn's first light.

His skin felt warmer to the touch now, which was reassuring. He still did not respond when she shook him gently and called his name, but he didn't look quite so alarmingly near death as he had the previous evening. His cheek was marred by a dark bruise where she had struck him the previous evening, and she fought down a brief surge of guilt at the sight. She touched two fingers to the pulse point in his throat; it beat slow yet steady beneath her hand. His breathing was quiet, slow and even. His face held the curious blankness of one lost deep within dreams. He looked somehow younger with the lines of care smoothed away, guileless and almost innocent, much as he had when first she knew him.

Before Justice.

Shaking her head, she turned away and dressed herself before deciding to head up on deck. Maybe she would think better with fresh air and the wind in her hair, once she took a sighting to check their course and had a better idea of how things lay.

She made her way up on deck, the octant in her hand, and automatically looked first to the masts and sails. All seemed well there, so she turned and mounted the steps to the quarterdeck.

And came to a halt as she spotted the tell-tale sign of white sails gleaming in the early morning light, perhaps two cables behind them and a little to starboard, running before the wind much as they were.

She set her shoulders and continued walking across the quarterdeck, calmly taking her sightings with the octant. Well, the good news was that they appeared to be on course. The bad news, of course, was that they hadn't managed to give Hawke the slip.

Isabela's face was a blank mask as she pulled out her telescope and trained it upon the _Kirkwall Tern_ as it raced along in their wake. Hollick recognised the look; it usually foretold someone about to lose badly at Wicked Grace. Frequently him.

“She's been with us since just before dawn, Captain,” said Hollick quietly as he stepped up to the railing beside her. “I was about to come wake you. They've signalled to us.”

“Do you ever sleep, Serah Hollick?”

“I try not to, Captain; ruins my reputation as a heartless, indefatigable monster with the men, you know.”

She lowered the telescope and smirked at him. “Get below, Hollick; that's an order.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” he replied.

As Hollick headed below, Isabela trained her spyglass back on the signal flags fluttering from the stays of the Tern.

“ _Permission requested Champion to repair on board with companion_.” Permission requested. Not, “ _Stand by to be boarded_ ”, which is what she would have expected – and would certainly have been the signal had their positions been reversed. She tapped the rail thoughtfully with one long shapely forefinger, her only outward sign of agitation, then trained the spyglass upon the _Tern's_ fore deck.

Hawke was leaning upon the railing, turned slightly to the left as he spoke to Fenris. The elf seemed to be staring straight at Isabela; it was unnervingly as though he were able to see her down the barrel of the spyglass. As she watched, Fenris leaned slightly towards the man and said something in reply which caused Hawke to straighten and stare back towards the _Mage's Pride_.

She turned back to the main deck. “Haul in the fore mains'l and reef the mains'l!” she roared. “Stand by to come about and heave to!” She turned to the helmsman. “Drop back and bring us alongside the _Tern_.”

The helmsman nodded, glancing up at the sails. She turned to the signalman.

“Reply to the _Tern_ : Permission granted.”

 

* * *

 

“Isabela has returned up on deck,” observed Fenris quietly. Hawke straightened and glanced up ahead to the _Mage's Pride_ ; from this distance he could see the flash of morning sunlight as it gleamed upon her white tunic.

“What do you suppose her answer will be?” wondered Hawke.

“I have no idea,” replied Fenris, his voice neutral. “I am not Isabela.”

“Look, something's happening,” said Hawke, pulling out his spyglass. “They're reefing in their sails and turning.”

Fenris regarded the ship keenly, leaning forward over the rail as he watched the schooner turn slowly to starboard as Hawke turned and shouted back to the helmsman to do the same. Fenris shifted over to the port rail as the _Tern_ hove to, sailors aloft reefing in her main sails and backing the staysails and jibs to let her momentum carry her steadily round to starboard and alongside the _Mage's Pride_. It seemed to take an inordinately long time for the two ships to slowly close the gap between them as sailors aboard both vessels closehauled the staysails.

Fenris alternately paced the small deck of the fo'c'sle impatiently then leaned upon the port rail, flexing the steel-tipped claws of his gauntlets into the painted wood.

“Why must it take so long?” he snarled at Hawke as the warrior came to join him.

“It's no easy task to bring several hundred tonnes of ship to a relative halt beside another ship in the middle of the sea on a windy day, Fenris,” replied Hawke. “I'm sure you'd rather we didn't crash and sink, hmm?”

Fenris turned away, glowering. “I hate boats,” he replied quietly.

They watched in silence as the distance between the ships steadily closed until perhaps a cable's distance lay between them. Hawke pushed himself away from the rail and made his way aft to where the sailors were making ready the ship's boat. Fenris followed, reaching back to touch the Blade of Mercy as if for reassurance.

“Are you sure you wish to go across alone, Messere?” asked Captain Morrow as the boat was swung over the side and lowered into the water. “It seems foolish to go without even one of my men to row you. Will you not reconsider?”

“I would not wish to needlessly endanger any of your crew, Captain,” replied Hawke as he swung himself over the side, his feet finding the rungs of the rope ladder easily enough.

“But the elf -” Morrow began, turning to Fenris who glared at him. “Forgive me, Serah, but you are not a seaman. You are unfamiliar with boats. At least let me send two of my men across with you to handle the boat?”

Grudgingly Fenris turned to Hawke. “The man has a point,” he said.

“Very well, but two men only – and they stay with the boat,” replied Hawke. He climbed the rest of the way down into the boat, followed by two sailors. Finally Fenris gingerly lowered himself over the rail and began the long climb down to the boat.

The ship was not still, even hove to like this. It pitched and shifted upon the restless sea, heeling over upon her port side as the wind buffeted her, causing the rope ladder to hang away from her side and dangle, slowly swinging, over the sea. One of the sailors caught the end of the rope ladder to steady it as the other unshipped the oars and helped hold the boat steady by gently sculling.

Hawke reached up and snagged the back of his belt as he reached the bobbing boat, preventing the elf from lurching overboard as he staggered back off the ladder, unbalanced. Fenris managed to scramble in a somewhat undignified and less than graceful manner onto one of the wooden seats, glowering at Hawke as the warrior stepped back into his place. The sailors cast off the lines fore and aft, then turned the boat and began to row steadily for the other ship.

Hawke stared up at the _Mage's Pride_ as they drew closer; Fenris turned upon his seat (when he was certain that doing so would not pitch him headlong into the waves) to follow his gaze. Isabela stood watching them calmly from the quarterdeck, not even deigning to descend to the main deck to receive them as they drew alongside the schooner as she rode easily at bay, sheltered from the wind by the bulk of the _Kirkwall Tern_. The two crewmen easily caught the ropes thrown down from the Pride, then caught and steadied the rope ladder for the two warriors.

Fenris darted a glance at Hawke, then before the larger man could rise from his seat the elf reached for the ladder and began climbing. Hawke waited until the elf had swung a leg across the rail before following after. As he pulled himself up onto the deck, he glanced round.

The crew of the _Mage's Pride_ stood about the deck, watching them with curiosity. Fenris stood glowering at them, hands held ready at his sides but not reaching for his sword. Yet.

Hawke stared up at Isabela, who regarded him with an amused smirk as she leaned upon the quarterdeck rail, her ample bosom resting upon her folded arms.

“Permission to come aboard, Captain?” he called up.

“Permission granted, Hawke!” she replied gaily as she pushed herself upright and strode to the top of the stairs. She walked down slowly, well aware that all eyes were upon her. She glanced over her men as she descended. “Well? What are you all waiting for – the Midwinterfest Fairy?” she roared. “Back to your duties, ye swabs!”

The men all turned back to their various chores, setting to with a will and vigour that Hawke was fairly sure was at least half for show; he could still feel the prickling sensation upon the back of his neck that told him they were still being watched. The crew had lost none of their curiosity over the two men's presence in their midst; they were simply being more discrete about it under their Captain's watchful eye.

“Welcome aboard the _Mage's Pride_ , gentlemen!” smiled Isabela. “Though I think we can dispense with any pretensions that this is a social visit.”

Fenris lunged towards her and was only barely restrained by Hawke's hand upon his shoulder.

“Witch, what have you done with him?” he snarled.

Isabela's eyes narrowed as she set her hands upon the hilts of the long fighting knives slung upon her hips even as swords appeared in the hands of the nearest crewmen who suddenly took a much more open interest in events.

“Let me make things clear to you, Broody,” said Isabela in a polite tone as she smiled mirthlessly at them. “You are present upon this ship because I choose to allow you. You are in no position to make demands of me. If I give the word, my men will gut you both and throw you overboard to feed the fish.”

“Let them try, if you truly value their lives so little,” sneered the elf.

“Fenris....” said Hawke warningly, tightening his grip upon the elf's shoulder.

“Oh, I have no doubt you would kill a great many of them before they threw you over,” replied Isabela, unperturbed. “But of course if you did that, you'd simply guarantee you'd never see Anders again.” She cocked her head upon one side. “Or is that what you want?”

“You wouldn't...!” Fenris snarled. “ _Vishante kaffras_ , witch, you are trying my patience! Where is he? What have you done with him?”

“I? Nothing,” replied Isabela coolly, folding her arms as she tossed her hair back. “Unlike Hawke there. Tell me, Hawke, do you make a habit of stabbing your lovers in the back?”

Hawke made a faint strangled sound, and Fenris glanced back at him. The warrior had a stricken look upon his face. “Please... I have to see him,” he said quietly.

“What, so you can make a better job of it this time?” snorted Isabela.

“He will not harm a hair upon his head,” said Fenris, staring at Hawke before turning slowly back to Isabela. “I swear it upon my life.” He reached for his sword and instantly a dozen swords were levelled at him. He glanced around at the ring of serried steel that encircled him before turning his gaze to Isabela as he slowly drew the blade then, equally slowly, laid it upon the deck, his eyes never leaving hers.

Isabela turned and nodded to her men who drew back as Hawke followed Fenris' lead, laying his sword on the deck then stepping away.

“Well?” asked Fenris quietly. Isabela regarded him silently, then nodded once. “You can come with me,” she told Fenris. “Hawke remains here – for now.” She turned and headed for the door that led below, without looking back to see if the elf followed.

Fenris glanced back at Hawke, who hesitantly nodded. Then the elf followed the Rivaini woman.

Hawke watched him go. He clenched his fists at his sides, feeling useless.

 _Maker, let Anders be alright. Please._


	16. Chapter 16

Fenris followed Isabela down below.

Despite his foremost concerns for Anders and the impulsive desire to push past her and race on ahead, he stayed a couple of steps behind her, glancing about himself at the hallway she led him down. Closed doors led of on either side of a narrow passage that doglegged to the right and then led on towards a door at the end of the passageway. Isabela paused before the door then turned and pressed her back against it, placing a hand flat against the wooden walls of the passage on either side.

“Why did you follow?” she demanded, her face serious, eyes calculating as she regarded him shrewdly.

Fenris' own jade-green eyes narrowed as he returned her stare. “You know how I feel about the mage,” he replied testily.

“Then why did you let him go into the Deep Roads alone?” she challenged.

He sighed, and glanced away. “He insisted upon going alone. He said it was his... penance. He left me sleeping and went alone.”

“But you could have followed him!” she insisted.

“I am not a Grey Warden,” replied the elf evenly. “He had the maps. I had no way of knowing where he had gone. What purpose would it have served if I had followed him only to lose myself.”

Isabela pursed her lips with a small huff of breath, then shifted her weight to the other leg.

“Why did you let Hawke stab him?” she jabbed.

Fenris sighed and bowed his head. “For that, I am regretful. I truly thought he wished to die. I would not hold him unwilling to this life.”

“You walked away and left him! You and Hawke both!” growled Isabela.

Fenris' head jerked up as he glared at her. “And so did you. But then, backstabbing and betrayal comes naturally to you, does it not, Isabela?”

Isabela's expression changed, softening slightly. “It did once,” she agreed with a single nod. “But it's different when you love someone.” She shook her head. “That's why I can't understand how you could walk away like that, without comforting him in his final moments. Or even making sure he was actually dead.”

“I wanted to, Isabela, I-” His head suddenly jerked back as he stared at her. “Wait, what? Love someone... Do you mean to tell me....”

She folded her arms around herself over her breasts and bit her lip, suddenly looking a little unsure of herself – quite un-Isabela-like, in fact. She gave a nervous laugh. “Ironic, isn't it? Me, falling in love with something other than a ship or gold. Little Serah Shallow herself.”

“But – how? When?”

Isabela shrugged. “I don't know. It sort of crept up on me whilst I wasn't looking,” she smiled. “I guess, you hang around with someone long enough in the close confines of a ship's cabin, you either end up killing them or falling in love with them.”

“Then you and he...?”

She shook his head. “No. Not really. Oh, we fooled around some, sure; but it's a little off-putting when your bed partner has this annoying habit of blurting out his male lover's name in his sleep.”

Fenris stared at her. “His... Hawke or...?”

Isabela regarded him with a serious look. As she continued to stare at him, he felt growing disappointment sweep over him, and slowly he lowered his head.

Isabela suddenly grinned and gave him a friendly punch in the shoulder. “You goose, of course it was your name!” she laughed. “He's been pining after you the whole time we've together. Made me quite jealous, I can tell you – and you know I don't do jealous. Green just isn't my colour, you know.”

Fenris was caught off-balance by the friendly blow and rocked back a step as he regarded Isabela doubtfully. “He... spoke of me?”

“He dreamed about you often. Sometimes, he...” She broke off, and glanced away. “No. It's not my place to talk. Not right now.” She turned away towards the door. “You came to see Anders, not to hear me gossip about him,” she said quietly. Then she glanced back at him over her shoulder. “He....” She lowered her head. “Well, you'll see.” She pushed the door open, stepping through and then to one side, gesturing him into the cabin. “See for yourself.”

Fenris stared at her, then stepped into the cabin and glanced round.

It was quite spacious, as such things go; it spanned the width of the ship. A large desk dominated the room, strewn with maps and charts. A half-drunk carafe of wine stood perched near the edge, and the remains of a plate of fruit lay nearby.

As Fenris advanced into the room, he soon spotted the large double bunk that lay behind the desk, under the broad rear window of the cabin, and the single occupant lying there. Fenris hastened to the side of the bunk and stared down at Anders.

The mage lay asleep upon his back, one hand resting on his breast whilst the other lay upon the dark velvet coverlet. His long blond hair was scattered loose over the white linen pillow, and the collar of his shirt was unlaced. His face was completely relaxed in sleep, all the lines of care smoothed over. A bruise darkened the skin beneath one eye.

Fenris slowly pulled off his gauntlets one by one, tossing the, down upon the foot of the bed; then he gently stroked the back of his hand across Anders' cheek before running a finger along the sleeping man's jaw, curious at the slightly rough feel of the unfamiliar beard. Then he sank down onto the edge of the bed and slid his arms around the mage, resting his head over Anders' heart.

“ _Mi Amatus. O corde, ignosces. Numquam ego dimittam vos,_ ”* he breathed softly. He closed his eyes and breathed in the familiar scent of the mage – herbs, the metallic tang of lyrium, and now too the salt smell of the sea.

Anders lay still beneath him, and after a moment, he sat up and looked down at the unconscious man with a faint frown upon his face. “Anders?” he said quietly.

“He's been like that since just after he blew up the Orlesian ship,” Isabela said quietly as she closed the cabin door then slowly ade her way over to the desk. She hitched up one hip to perch upon the edge of the desk. “I have something to show you in a minute.”

“In a minute?” echoed Fenris, frowning as he straightened.

“I'm hoping perhaps the sound of your voice will achieve what I couldn't,” said Isabela, gesturing at the sleeping mage. Fenris turned back to Anders. He cupped the apostate's face gently, rubbing his thumb lightly over the bruise. “Anders,” he called gently; then again, more insistently, “Anders!”

Anders did not stir, even when Fenris grasped his shoulders and briefly shook him. “Beloved, it is I, Fenris! Wake up!” His emerald green eyes drank in the stillness of his love, growing steadily more distressed as Anders remained inert and unheeding, lost in dreams. He grasped the hand that rested upon Anders' breast and pressed the palm to his own cheek. “It's me, love. Wake up. Please.” he turned his head a little and kissed the warm palm.

Then he laid Anders' hand back down and cupped both hands around Anders' face. Staring down at the sleeping man's face, he closed his eyes briefly, then locked his gaze back upon Anders and drew upon the lyrium branded into his flesh. He felt the power rippling through his skin as a fierce silvery white light filled the room.

He felt the magic answering deep within Anders' slender form, calling to him; and abruptly the mage arched his back, mouth open in a silent scream as his eyes flew open wide, blank and unseeing. Fenris instantly released him and drew back. Anders slumped back against the pillow, blinking as he groaned.

Isabela leaned forward eagerly as Fenris took Anders' hand between his own. “Beloved?”

Anders glanced around in confusion, blinking slowly. “Fenris?”

“Yes, it is I, dear heart,” said Fenris quietly.

“I don't... understand....” said Anders slowly, as his eyes fluttered closed once more.

“No – don't go!” cried Fenris. He dropped Anders' hand and grasped him by the shoulders again, shaking him firmly. “You must stay awake!”

But it was no use. Anders' eyes fluttered closed and he was unconscious once more.

“Can you do it again?” asked Isabela. “You got more response from him than I've managed to get.”

Fenris shook his head. “I'm not sure it would be wise,” he replied. “I suspect it is... painful to him; certainly too much would put a strain upon his body that I do not think he could withstand. I have only ever used it to drive back Justice.”

“Can you sense Justice in him?” asked Isabela. Fenris shook his head. “I never could. My abilities don't work that way. I can sense the magic within him; it sings in my blood. But I could never distinguish between his own magic and that of the demon.”

“Anders said he couldn't feel Justice anymore. That it was as if the spirit had died instead of him when Hawke drove the dagger into his back.” She stared down at the sleeping man's face. “Perhaps he was right.”

“Perhaps,” said Fenris thoughtfully. After a moment, he shook himself out of reverie and turned back to Isabela. “You said you had something to show me?”

She pushed herself forward off the desk. “You're not going to like it,” she warned him as she made her way around the desk towards a trunk by the far wall that Fenris had not noticed earlier, tucked behind the door. It was stood up on one end, and was longer than a man's height. Fenris wondered what it could possibly contain.

Isabela produced a key from inside her tunic and swiftly unlocked the long box, pulling out something long and thin swathed in folds of thick black woollen fabric. Fenris felt the hackles upon his neck rise as a prickling sensation ran up his spine. His lyrium marks flared into life of their own accord. He could feel the magic rolling off the object in malevolent waves.

“Fenris, control yourself!” cried Isabela warningly, and suddenly the elf realised he had moved without conscious thought to crouch upon the end of the bunk between Anders and the staff, his lips peeled back from his teeth which were bared in a feral snarl. With a start he suddenly realised the threatening growls he could hear were coming from his own throat.

“Put it away!” he managed to snarl through gritted teeth. Isabela wordlessly obeyed.

Once the staff was safely locked out of sight, Fenris found he was able to relax a little.

“ _Fasta vass_ , what was that?” demanded Fenris, running a hand through his hair. He was disquietened to realise his hands were trembling.

“That,” replied Isabela, “Is Anders' staff. The one he brought out of the Deep Roads with him, and that he's been using ever since. Including to destroy the Orlesian ship, the same way he brought down the Chantry.”

“He took no staff with him into the Deep Roads,” said Fenris.

“Well, he certainly brought one out with him,” replied Isabela.

Fenris turned and looked back at Anders, then back to Isabela. “I think you should bring Hawke in now,” he said quietly.

Isabela tilted her head and regarded him thoughtfully. “Can we trust him?”

“I gave my word,” replied Fenris flatly. “He feels nothing but remorse for what he did – much as Anders does.”

Isabela studied him thoughtfully for several minutes, then slowly nodded. “Wait here.”

Fenris settled himself into place, leaning against the cabin window beside the bed as he stared down at the sleeping mage.

A moment later Hawke stormed into the room, Isabela a few steps behind. Hawke did not stop but instead let his momentum carry him across the room towards the bed and Anders. Without a glance at the elf, Hawke lurched to a halt beside the bed and stared down at the unconscious mage in silence. He pulled off his gauntlets slowly as he stared down at Anders with disbelieving eyes. Gently he reached out a hand to brush a stray strand of flaxen hair away from the closed eyes, then paused as he felt Anders' soft breath upon his arm. He lowered his hand to Anders' chest and let it rest there, feeling the apostate's heart beating steadily beneath his hand.

“I saw... but I thought I was dreaming. But he's real. He's really alive,” he said quietly. He took Anders' hand in his own, running his thumb across the back of Anders' hand before lifting it to his lips and kissing the fingers chastely.

He stood with head bowed, and his shoulders began to shake, heaving with great, silent sobs as tears ran down his cheek.

Fenris glanced away, discomfited over witnessing Hawke's grief. Isabela came to stand beside Hawke, a sympathetic look in her eyes quite at variance with her earlier attitude toward him. Gently she laid a hand on his arm, and he turned towards her, even as Fenris moved to gently take Anders' hand from Hawke's unresisting fingers. Isabela enfolded him in a comforting embrace and Hawke wept upon her shoulder as Fenris kissed Anders' limp fingers then laid the hand back upon the sleeping mage's chest, carefully laying his own hand over it.

They stood there for long moments as Hawke's paroxyms of grief gave way slowly. Isabela held him close, gently stroking the warrior's shaggy black hair as he buried his face against her neck, his tears hot and wet against her skin. Fenris stood in companionable silence, his hand resting lightly atop Anders'.

Eventually Hawke's breathing calmed from ragged gasps to deeper breaths, and he slowly disengaged himself from Isabela's embrace. He drew a faintly shuddering breath, then turned back to Anders.

“So,” he said in a voice that only wavered sightly. “Now what?”

Isabela and Fenris exchanged glances. “Are you ready?” she asked him.

Fenris drew breath then nodded. “As I ever will be,” he said flatly.

Isabela nodded in return, then turned to open the long chest once more.

Hawke wasn't sure just what to expect, but whatever it was, he was fairly certain it wasn't the glowing staff Isabela pulled out from the chest. It stood taller than her by several inches – as tall as hawke himself, in fact. Isabela held it warily through the thick folds of a wollen black cloak which she tugged down far enough to reveal the clear glowing crystal surrounded by tarnished silver rose vines. The lyrium roses inlaid around the base of the crystal seemed to pulse balefully, and Hawke took a step back as waves of palpable evil seemed to emanate from the staff.

Behind him he heard Fenris snarling wordlessly, and Hawke was unsurprised as bright silvery light erupted from behind him.

“I think you've shown us enough, Isabela,” Hawke managed to say calmly.

Isabela nodded and shrouded the staff with a fold of the cloak before thrusting it back into the chest, slamming it shut and locking it firmly. Then she turned as stared back at the others.

Hawke turned and glanced at Fenris, who was running a shaking hand over his face.

“Are you alright?” he asked him quietly. Fenris waved him off as he turned to the lead-latticed cabin window; he fumbled with the window catch then threw it open, leaning over the sill as he drew in deep lungfuls of air and tried not to be sick.

Hawke turned back to Isabela. “Andraste's tits, Isabela – what _was_ that thing?”

“That _thing_ , as you put it, was the staff Anders has been toting around these past four months,” she replied as she walked back over towards her desk, absently rubbing the palms of her hands against the legs of her leggings as though trying to wipe off something distasteful. “It's something he found in the Deep Roads. After he collapsed on deck following the spectacular demise of the _Orlesian Rose_ , my men brought hi down to the cabin to rest. When I came down here a few hours later, he was as you see him now, with his hand on the staff.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the locked chest. “I've not been able to wake him since.”

“But... he's not touching it now,” said Hawke slowly. “Why is it still glowing?”

“Search me,” Isabela shrugged. “I'm not a mage, and right now Anders isn't exactly forthcoming.”

“And what of Justice?” asked Hawke warily.

“Well, now that's the interesting thing,” said Isabela thoughtfully, tapping her chin with a long finger. “As far as we can make out... you killed him.”

“Me?” exclaimed Hawke.

Isabela nodded. “We're not sure what exactly happened. Anders thought perhaps Justice surrendered his own life – for want of a better word – to save Anders.”

“Where does the staff come in to this though?” asked Hawke. Isabela shook her head as Fenris turned back towards them.

“It is evil and must be destroyed,” he growled.

“And how do you know that doing that won't kill Anders?” replied Isabela.

“I...” began Fenris, then fell silent.

“You think the staff has – what, enslaved him somehow?” asked Hawke.

“I don't know,” replied Isabela. “But it certainly has something to do with his current state; I'd bet my ship on it.”

“Not your life?” quipped Hawke.

“My ship _is_ my life, Hawke; you should know that,” replied Isabela with a grin.

“So what do we do now?” asked Hawke. “We can't wake him; we daren't destroy the staff. So what do we do?”

“We find Merrill,” replied Fenris flatly.

For once, both Hawke and Isabela were at a loss for words as they stared at him.

“What choice do we have?” he said bitterly as he turned away.

Unspoken, the words were forefront in all their minds.

 _What choice indeed._

 

 

* * *

  
* _“My beloved. Oh dear heart, please forgive me. I should never have let you go._ ” 


	17. Chapter 17

He knew he was dreaming. Caught in the Fade.

That was the worst of it, of course; knowing he was trapped, that none of this was real. That he couldn't trust anything he was seeing.

He was walking over the surface of a glass sea. It were as though the watery waves had been frozen mid-wave into immovable glass, every swirl and eddy captured perfectly in razor-sharp crystal. At first glance from a distance it appeared black, but close to he could see the light filtering through the glass waves was tinted green, like the bottles of Fenris' wine. And with each step he took, he left little pools of blood which gathered in the troughs of each wave like dark wine.

He couldn't stop. He had to keep walking; keep following the wake of the ship. It seemed he had been walking for days, though here in the Fade he knew that time had no meaning. One could spend weeks here and find perhaps only an hour had passed in the waking world; or a single second could span an entire night. His only clue as to the passing of real time had been the appearance of the ships. Somehow, he knew they were what tied him to the living world.

They, and the Rose Staff.

He bitterly regretted having touched it now, but at the time it was an act born of desperation. He thought he had some better idea now as to how that poor unfortunate apostate had come to be there in the Deep Roads.

The waves around him were suddenly lit up by an electric blue glow, and he sighed, his shoulders slumping.

“Go away,” he said quietly. “I have nothing to say to you. My answer is the same: _no_.”

 **  
_But why?_   
**

He turned and stared at the flickering form of Vengeance. “Because I don't need you. I never did.”

 **  
_We brought justice to the mages. I helped you do that. You could not have done that alone._   
**

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “We started a war.” He raised a hand, and in an instant the glass sea was replaced by the blood-slicked cobblestones of the Gallows. The twisted statues were gone from the walls, as were the slumped bodies of the fallen mages, but the air was still heavy with the coppery scent of their blood. He gestured at the twisted lyrium statue that was all that remained of Meredith.

“And this was the result. Have you so soon forgotten all the dead that we are to blame for? The countless number of innocents slain by the templars – those we slew within the Chantry? More died there than just templars and corrupt priests.” He strode slowly over to the form of Meredith frozen forever in agony, the lyrium sword forged from the corrupted idol raised for eternity pointing to the sky. His own blood from his glass-lacerated feet mingled with the blood upon the stones.

“An apt warning for all those who would give in to temptation,” he reflected sombrely. He stared into Meredith's eyes. He fancied he could still see a trace of life in there; a terrified mind, trapped forever in lyrium, unmoving and unchanging forever, unable to die. “The price is never worth it.”

 **  
_You would have died at templar hands had we not joined. Have you forgotten?_   
**

He turned to stare at the demon. “Better I had died,” he replied flatly. “I would sooner be made Tranquil than be joined with you again.”

Vengeance raised its hand in turn, and the scene changed again; they were once more upon the glass sea, but now there was something else in the waves; a boat. He drew nearer, unheeding of the pain as the waves cut his feet anew. The boat seemed filled with blood, but as he drew closer he could see there was something else within the boat. A man.

He stared down at the bloodied form of Sebastian. The Prince of Starkhaven was no longer the handsome young man who had failed to find his true calling within the Chantry; one half of his face was burned almost beyond recognition, the other half cut and bruised. One twisted and blackened arm still clutched at the air uselessly as though trying to ward off the explosion that had wrought such destruction upon his ship and his body.

As he stared down upon the broken form of the man, Sebastian stirred. One blue eye opened blearily, staring around in confusion; the other eye was gone, a charred empty socket all that remained.

“Anders?” The voice was hoarse, damaged, no longer the mellifluous tenor that once had raised up the Chant of Light in gladness but a rough, broken thing like its owner. “Is... is that really you? Are you come to gloat over me, or am I still dreaming?”

Anders inclined his head sadly. “You _are_ dreaming. But I am real. And I am not going to gloat over you.”

“I... don't understand,” rasped Sebastian.

“I know,” said Anders. He leaned down and gently cradled the burned, bloodied face between his palms. Gently he let the magic flow, and the cool blue nimbus of healing magic glowed around his hands as Anders sank his magic into Sebastian. He closed his eyes as he reached inside the Prince with his senses, straightening bone and binding it together, growing new tendons, enclosing them with new muscle, replacing burned, charred skin and bone with new flesh and blood, regrowing arteries and veins, new traceries of nerves, enclosing the rebuilt form with fresh skin, unblemished by any scar or hurt.

He could not replace the eye; that was too far gone even for his magic. Where still even a scrap of original tissue was left, he could regrow anew, but there was nothing left of the eye to work with. Even here in the Fade, there was a limit to what he could do.

He let his hands fall away as Sebastian sat up then slowly pushed himself to his feet. The Prince stared down at his hands, turning them over in wonder, flexing the fingers before raising them to his face, feeling the smooth skin.

“Why?” he asked, incredulous. “Why would you heal me? You had me at your mercy.”

Anders regarded him wearily. “Because I am done with vengeance,” he said quietly.

Sebastian stared at the glowing blue form of the demon. “But is Vengeance done with you?” he asked. Anders lowered his head and sighed.

“Anders... if I had helped you fight harder against the demon within you... could you have found another way?”

He glanced up at Sebastian, who was regarding him with a strange expression the apostate couldn't quite read.

“To bring down the Chantry? Without bloodshed?” He shrugged. “I don't know. I'd like to think I would, but Justice – Vengeance,” he corrected himself, “was so much a part of me by then that I couldn't tell where he ended and I began. I no longer fully know what was the demon and what was still me.”

“But you're free of the demon now, aren't you?” said Sebastian, suddenly grasping his shoulders firmly through the feathered pauldrons. “That's why it's tempting you now – it wants to get back in?”

Anders nodded. “I guess he thought he could tempt me by offering me the chance to take my final vengeance on you. But I've done enough.” He lowered his head to his hands. “Too much.”

“But the deaths – the killing – that was the demon, Anders. It wasn't you.” Sebastian tightened his hands on Anders' shoulders and gave him a brief shake. “You're a good man, Anders. I know that deep down inside, that's true.”

Anders stared at him. “Are you really that naïve, Sebastian?” he said incredulously. “Did you not hear a word I just said? Sebastian, I couldn't tell the difference between Vengeance and me. We were one. There was no him or me. That _was_ me. And whether the original idea to blow up the Chantry came from him or from me, it was _me_ who did it. Not Justice. Not Vengeance. Me. I blew up the Chantry. I killed Elthina and every other priest and templar in that building. I murdered every innocent in the Chantry that day – every man, woman and child who'd just gone in for the evening service, or to pray for a lost loved one, or whatever. _My_ hand did that and no other. I used Hawke to distract Elthina, but it was _my_ hand that did it. And I can't hide behind Vengeance and pretend I was innocent.” He lowered his head. “I'm a murderer, Sebastian. Everything you said about me was true; abomination, murderer. Maleficar. I killed everyone in that Chantry – but also the deaths of every single mage and templar in Kirkwall are upon my head, because I started it and I did nothing to stop it.”

“Why are you telling me this?” asked Sebastian quietly.

“Because you deserve to know,” said Anders softly as his shoulders slumped. “You deserve to know the truth.” He glanced up at Sebastian, his eyes dark with misery as around them, the scene shifted, then shifted again, replaying over the events of that day which were seared forever into the minds of both men. “No matter how far I run, I can never outrun what I've done. I can never undo it.”

Sebastian let his hands fall away as he stepped back, his face troubled. He turned and walked a little way away from Anders, his boots loud against the blood-slicked stones of the Gallows. He stared up into the green sky, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Anders sat, or rather slumped, down onto a crate, head bowed.

“I cannot turn aside from what you have done either,” Sebastian said, not looking round at him. “I dream nightly of how their last moments must have been. Elthina... the templars... the innocent townspeople. The acolytes. How terrified they must have been. I wonder... did they cry out to the Maker in their final fleeting minutes of life? What must they have felt as their prayers went unanswered?”

He turned back to Anders. “Because I prayed myself. Even as I watched, and saw what you had done, I prayed. I couldn't understand why the Maker didn't stop you.” He took a step towards Anders, who sat with bowed head, not looking up.

“I still don't understand. Why did the Maker let you do that? Why did the Maker permit so many people to die senselessly?” He dropped his gaze to the stones. “I should hate you for what you did. Maker help me, I _want_ to hate you. And yet... Andraste taught us that we should have compassion for others, even when they have none for us. The Chant of Light say that no man is beyond redemption, and all are worthy of forgiveness. Andraste herself forgave those who betrayed her, we are taught – even Maferath himself. But I... I am no Andraste. I am but a mortal man, imperfect, and I....”

He closed the distance between himself and Anders in a few short steps and grasped the feathered shoulders, forcing the mage backwards so that as Anders fell, sprawling upon the bloodied stones, he was forced to look at the half-blinded Prince. “Maker damn you, man, say something!” he cried.

Anders stared up at the blue eye as it pierced him in search of answers. “I...have nothing left to say,” he managed to whisper. “I don't have any answers.”

“Damn you!” screamed Sebastian as he fell heavily to his knees, pushing the apostate down against the stones. “Damn you. Damn, damn, damn you....” He doubled over weeping, his hands clenched into the feathers, gauntlets gauging into Anders' flesh through the coat.

A glowing hand appeared between them, plucking Hawke's knife from Anders' belt and holding it hilt first towards the Prince. Anders stared at the blade, then lay back and stared up at Sebastian, who stared at the blade. Slowly, he lifted one hand to take the knife.

“If you slay me here in the Fade, I will not die, Sebastian,” said Anders quietly.

“What will happen to you? Will you just.... wake up?” he asked dully, as he turned the blade over in his hand. Anders shook his head.

“No. I will be...” He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, then opened them again to fix Sebastian with his amber gaze. “I will be Tranquil.”

Sebastian's gaze shifted from the blade to Anders. “Truly?” he whispered.

“Truly,” he breathed. He reached up to the collar of his coat and as the Prince watched, he slowly unfastened it, pulling it open then tugging open the ties of his robe. Taking the edge of the cloth in both hands, he pulled it down, baring his throat. His eyes never left Sebastian's face as he tilted his head back slightly.

Sebastian lowered the tip of the blade until it nestled against the hollow of Anders' throat. “Are you not afraid?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” said Anders simply. A single tear welled up in his eye; he blinked hard, and it slowly rolled down the side of his face.

“Then why?” Sebastian stared down at Anders, shaking his head in confusion.

“Justice,” replied Anders. “It's what you want, isn't it? What you need?”

Sebastian dropped his gaze to the blade pressed against the apostate's throat. “But is this justice?” he whispered. “Or am I only giving in to my own desire for vengeance?”

“Only you can answer that,” replied Anders quietly. Sebastian raised the gaze of his single blue eye once more to meet that of Anders, who regarded him steadily.

“And if I let you live? Will this dream end?”

“For you? Yes. You will wake healed and as whole as I could make you. But for me?” Anders turned his stare to the flickering form of Vengeance which regarded them both.

“You would be possessed by that demon once more?” frowned Sebastian. The point of the blade pressed harder against the tender flesh; a small drop of blood welled up around the tip. Anders' eyes closed briefly with an indrawn hiss of breath before he opened his eyes again, staring up onto Sebastian's face.

“No. That's why I'm trapped here,” he replied. “I will not take him back. So he refuses to let me wake.”

“You are held in the Fade by this demon?” said Sebastian, drawing back a little.

“By my refusal to submit,” replied Anders. “When Hawke killed me with this blade, I did die. What was left of Justice surrendered his own life to save me. But my death severed the connection between myself and what had become Vengeance. He desires a living host once more, but I will not take him back. I will not become an abomination again.”

“And you are willing to die or be made Tranquil for the sake of my justice – or face being trapped here in the Fade forever if I choose to let you live?”

Anders smiled mirthlessly. “Not forever,” he replied. “Eventually my body will die, and then my spirit will be free.”

Sebastian sat up and hurled the blade away from him. “This is not justice,” he said firmly, as he turned to stare at Vengeance. “And ye'll not have me either, demon!” he spat. He rose to his feet and held his hand out to the surprised mage. Anders stared at the hand, then at Sebastian before taking the archer's grasp and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.

“You have another choice, Anders,” he said. “You can fight. And I'll fight beside you. If you'll have me?”

Anders raised his head, confusion in his eyes. “But... why would you do that?”

“Did it not occur to you that perhaps Vengeance was tempting me also?” asked Sebastian, glaring at the demon. “Can ye not hear it, telling me to strike ye down now while I at last have the chance?”

Anders glanced at the demon, and indeed its face was contorted in rage. He glanced back at Sebastian. “You would fight with a mage?”

“Alongside one,” Sebastian corrected him with a smile. “Aye. I've been blinded long enough. It's time I learned to start seeing the light clearly, with the sight I still have left.” He touched his fingers briefly to the empty socket. “Ye've given me a second chance, Anders. Allow me to do the same for you.”

Anders raised his eyes to where the two ships had suddenly appeared, sailing slowly through the glass waves as the walls of the Gallows dissolved and faded around them once more.

“You already have,” he replied quietly, as Sebastian, too, faded from sight.

 

* * *

 

Fenris curled around the sleeping form of Anders. He had refused to be parted from him; Hawke had returned to the _Kirkwall Tern_ alone whilst he remained aboard the _Mage's Pride_.

Isabela was on deck; Fenris had slid quietly into the broad double bunk beside the sleeping mage after a sparing supper. He had little appetite; the sight of the staff and its effects upon him seemed to have brought his seasickness flaring back unpleasantly.

He had tried to sleep, but his mind worried restlessly over the enormity of the task that faced them. He had no idea where they might even begin tracking down Merrill. As with so much right now, it was a thought born of desperation. Merrill was the only one who knew much about the ritual used by Marethari that allowed them all to enter the Fade in search of the half-elvhen boy, Feynriel; Fenris could only pray that she would know how to awaken Anders from his enchanted sleep and destroy the staff without harming him.

He finally gave up on trying to sleep, and sat up, staring down at Anders. Maybe it was his imagination, but the mage seemed paler, his face more drawn; there were dark circles of exhaustion beneath his eyes. Whatever the nature of his somnolence, it was not a peaceful rest; and whilst he remained thus, he would slowly starve to death.

He glanced up at the desk where his bowl of soup still lay, mostly untouched. Frowning thoughtfully, Fenris slipped from beneath the covers and padded quietly around the bunk to poke the stew experimentally. It was still warm. Taking up the bowl and spoon, Fenris pulled a chair over beside the bed and set the bowl down upon it before slipping back into the bed. He sat with his back against the headboard and carefully pulled the unconscious Anders up so that he rested against Fenris' bare chest, his head resting against the elf's bicep. He pressed his fingertips against the mage's lips until his mouth opened, then carefully he spooned a little of the broth in. Anders swallowed reflexively, and Fenris sighed in relief. Perhaps it wouldn't be as hard as he had feared to keep the mage alive until they could find Merrill. Slowly, steadily, he fed the mage spoonful after spoonful of the stew until the bowl was empty, then he set the spoon aside in the empty bowl.

He gently wiped away a little of the stew that had dribbled out of the corner of Anders' mouth, then stroked the long blond hair back from the pale forehead. He had never thought he would find himself in this position again; tending carefully to an unconscious healer. Yet here he was, once again fighting to preserve life in a battle whose rules of engagement he did not understand.

Anders stirred beneath his fingers, and the elf froze, hardly daring to hope as Anders' eyelids fluttered briefly. A single tear slid from beneath the lowered eyelashes to run down his pale cheek. Fenris cradled him close.

“Beloved?” he whispered hopefully as he ran a thumb over Anders' cheek to wipe the tear away. The mage's eyes flew open.

“Sebastian!” he managed to gasp. “Save-”

He rolled his eyes towards the door even as they heard the cry of “Boat ahoy!” from above. He raised a hand towards the door as though in entreaty.

“Anders?” said Fenris as the apostate turned back to him.

“Please, you must-” he gasped, and then fell silent as his eyes rolled back in his head.

As Anders' hand fell limply upon the the bed, Fenris could not hold back his cry of despair.


	18. Chapter 18

Fenris stared down at Anders, frustration and disappointment twisting in his guts like a restless snake. Anders was once again as silent, unconscious and unreachable as before. When Anders' eyes had flickered open, he had felt such a surge of hope within his heart; but now it tasted like bitter ashes in his mouth.

Gently he laid the sleeping mage down, then rose from the bed to begin restlessly pacing. His hands clenched uselessly at his sides as he strode, his bare feet padding quietly upon the floorboards.

He despised feeling this powerless. It was not a feeling that rested easily with him. There was no foe here that he might wield his blade against; nothing but foul magic. He curled his lip in disgust as he paused, his glance falling upon the locked chest.

In a sudden rage, he pulled the chest from where it rested against the wall and flung it to the floor. Seizing a wooden chair, he brought it down heavily upon the chest lid until it splintered, then he plucked the staff from the soft folds of woollen cloth that hid it from view.

He stared down at the staff as it rested in his hands. The hateful thing was still glowing with that unnatural, baleful light, pulsing as though in time to the throb of a heartbeat. The cool smooth black wood felt alien and somehow almost greasy in his hands and he glared at it in distaste.

Was there anything that magic would not pervert or destroy? Even this reunion with Anders which should have been a joyful thing was turned to despair, the mage ensorcelled by this thing. Magic poisoned everything it touched; even their love, it seemed, for there had always been the lurking presence of that demon in the apostate's mind. Anders was living proof that there was not a mage living that, no matter how good their intentions, would not always give into temptation at the last and become the abomination that all feared.

In that, the mage was no better than Danarius, his hated master. He glared at the unconscious mage; with that beard and in those fancy silks, he even _looked_ something like Danarius. Damn him.

He felt a fierce, red heat of anger rising within him as he paced back towards the sleeping mage, the staff still clutched in his hands. A blind rage rose within him, blurring his vision as he glared down at the mage.

This was his fault. All his fault. How dare he...!

He grasped the mage's hair and dragged him upright against the headboard then pressed the haft of the staff against the unconscious man's throat. How fitting that he should die by his own staff! He would finally be rid of Danarius once and for all. At last, he would have his revenge.... He smiled grimly as he leaned upon the staff, crushing it against the mage's throat.

The mage gasped faintly, then coughed, his eyelashes fluttering as he raised his hand to push against the staff haft that was throttling him. He blinked soft brown eyes at the elf in confusion.

"Fen...Fenris...no...." he breathed then gagged as the pressure of the staff against his throat cut off his breath. His eyes widened in alarm as he read only murderous intent in the hard jade-green eyes that stared at him, the madness of rage driving out any awareness of where he was or what he was doing as the staff blazed brilliantly, the blue-white glare blinding.

There was a roaring in his ears, black stars bursting across his vision, but Anders released his grip against the staff and instead of fighting against the elf, he reached out and grasped Fenris' wrists. His chest was aflame with pain as he desperately tried in vain to drawn breath; but even as he felt consciousness slipping away, he reached within himself for the magic. It responded, leaping from his touch to the welcoming embrace of the lyrium within the elf's skin as he let the healing flow into the elf.

Even as his vision grew dark, he thought he saw Fenris pause, blinking; a dawning comprehension returning to the emerald eyes to be followed by a look of horror as the elf realised what he was doing.

Anders' hands fell away from Fenris' wrists as his brown eyes fell closed and his head fell forward, spilling flaxen hair across Fenris' hands as they held the staff against the apostate's throat.

Brown eyes. Blond hair, not grey. As the mist of madness cleared from his mind, Fenris' eyes widened. It was Anders he was killing, not his long-dead master, Danarius.

"Maker, _no_!" he breathed as he hurriedly snatched the staff away. "What have I done?"

Anders fell sideways across the bed, his head lolling bonelessly over the edge of the bed as one hand trailed limply upon the floor. Fenris stared horrified at the lurid purple bruise that stood out in stark contrast against Anders' pale throat. He backed away, then stared down at the staff still clutched in his hands. His face twisted in rage and he swept the staff high above his head, resolved to break the accursed thing across his knee.

But as he lifted it above his head, it suddenly blazed forth once more with power as spirit fire danced across his skin. He threw back his head and screamed as every lyrium line upon his body burst into brilliant white agonising fire in response. It was like being branded anew all over again, the pain excruciating beyond all memory. His vision whited out under the onslaught as he reeled, then mercifully he lost all consciousness.

 

* * *

 

Hawke stared down at the drifting boat as the sailors hooked it with long poles and grappling hooks. He was aware of Isabela watching from the quarterdeck of the _Mage's Pride_ ; barely half a cable separated the two ships; too close, really, but he couldn't fault her for taking a close interest in this current turn of events.

They hadn't expected Sebastian to have survived the destruction of the _Pride of Starkhaven_ ; though Hawke had studied the ruined remains of the galleon for long minutes as they puled away from her, he had seen no sign of the Prince's shining white armour amongst the wreckage that the ship's deck had been reduced to. The _Pride_ had been listing heavily to port as they left her in their wake, no signs of movement anywhere upon the crippled vessel; and though he'd told Captain Morrow that they would return and render aid once they'd secured the mage, neither he nor the captain expected to find the _Pride of Starkhaven_ still afloat. Ruined and taking on water as she had been, it could only have been a matter of time until the galleon slipped beneath the waves, taking the bodies of all aboard her to their final rest upon the sea bed.

So to see that single ship's boat drifting there, strewn with dead templars as a single figure in twisted, broken once-white armour slowly pulled himself up to a sitting position against the boat's gunwale was to see something out of a dream. As the boat was drawn alongside the _Kirkwall Tern_ , the figure looked up at the deck.

It was, indeed, Sebastian; seemingly whole and well as though flame had never touched him, though the state of his armour suggested otherwise. Battered, burned and twisted, it had been stripped off entirely from his right-hand side, and his right arm and leg were bare and naked though the smooth flesh appeared unscathed. As Hawke watched from the quarterdeck, Sebastian climbed the rope ladder that dropped down over the deck railing; deck hands moved forward to help the Prince as he climbed aboard, then held him prisoner as Sebastian glanced around.

No... not entirely unscathed, it seemed; though the left eye was as keen and bright blue as ever, the right eye was gone, a gaping empty socket where it had been, the skin around it scarred and twisted. "Where is Hawke?" he was demanding. "I must speak with the Champion immediately!"

Hawke cleared his voice, and Sebastian glanced up. "Hawke! Where is Anders?" he demanded.

"What, so you can finish him off? Drag him back to the Chantry in Starkhaven perhaps?" sneered Hawke as he leaned over the railing.

"I must see Anders immediately!" exclaimed Sebastian, trying to push forward as he was restrained. "It is imperative that you take me to see him!"

"I think not," replied Hawke coldly. "Take him below and lock him in the brig."

"What? No!" cried Sebastian, struggling as they began to drag him below. "Hawke, you don't understand! Don't do this!" He was still protesting as they dragged him below. "You're making a big mistake!"

Hawke dismissed him with a wave of a hand as the Prince was dragged below decks. The brig was empty since they'd returned Isabela's crewman; a bit concussed and the worse for wear, but otherwise unharmed. Sebastian could cool his heels there in the dark until Hawke decided what to do with him.

He glanced across to Isabela, who stood with her arms folded and an eyebrow raised in question, evidently entertained by the whole spectacle that had just transpired; he was about to call over to her, when a flash of light from the rear cabin windows of the _Mage's Pride_ caught his attention. He ran to the railing and stared down as bright electric blue light flashed and blazed from within the cabin, and his eyes flew wide in surprise and alarm.

"Isabela!" he bellowed, gesturing down at the cabin. "Anders!"

She started in surprise, then leaned over the railing to stare down before spinning and running for the rail of the quarterdeck, swinging herself over and dropping to the main deck as she sprinted for the cabin; he could hear her yelling for her first mate, Hollick, as she ran.

"Bring us alongside the _Pride_!" Hawke bellowed to the helmsman as he reached for a rope and clambered atop the deck rail. "I'm going across!" He watched as the helmsman swung the wheel to close the distance between the two ships. And then he was swinging across towards the other ship, all too aware that the cabin windows of the _Mage's Pride_ had gone dark.

He followed in Isabela's footsteps as he braced a hand against the quarterdeck rail then lithely leapt over it, dropping to the main deck upon sure feet before sprinting for the door and the passageway to the main cabin aft. He burst in only a few steps behind Hollick, then froze, taking in the tableau before him.

Anders was slumped across the bed, his head and one arm hanging over the edge, a dark bruise marring the pale skin of his throat. A step away from his limp outstretched hand lay the huddled form of Fenris, curled in upon himself, the black staff lying beside him upon the floor.

"Don't touch the staff!" warned Isabela as Hawke moved forward, reaching for the fallen mage even as Isabela dropped to her knees beside the elf.

Tenderly Hawke gathered up Anders in his arms. Laying him back upon the bed, he held his vambrace out before the pale, bloodless lips. He stared anxiously, then sighed with relief as a faint ghost of breath misted the cool metal. He rested his head against Anders' chest, reassured by the slow steady beating of the mage's heart.

Isabela had turned over Fenris carefully, and she looked up at Hawke with worried eyes. "Hawke... he's bleeding," she said in a low, urgent voice.

"What?" exclaimed Hawke, turning and staring down at the elf as Isabela carefully turned his face so the warrior could see the blood that smeared the tanned cheek, sticky as it still trickled slowly from Fenris' nostrils. His lips, too, were bloodied, where he had bitten the bottom lip through in his agony. Blood even pooled below his eyes, seeping beneath the closed lids like crimson tears.

"What in the name of the Maker is going on?" cried Hawke as he fell to his knees beside the unconscious elf and took him from Isabela's arms. "Is everyone on this ship going mad?"

"It's the staff," replied Isabela, looking down at it. "It must be. I left it locked up, but...." She gestured to the splintered remains of the chest.

"First Sebastian shows up apparently unharmed after Anders blew his ship to kingdom come apart from a missing eye, demanding to see Anders, and now this. What in the name of Andraste's flaming arse is going on?" exclaimed Hawke in exasperation as he rose to his feet and made his way around the bed to lay Fenris down beside Anders. "First Anders, now Fenris. Who's next?"

"No-one was in the room, Captain," said Hollick, stirring. "I saw no-one come down here, and there was no-one in the room when we got here."

"That bloody staff. It's a curse." Isabela picked up the woollen cloak and threw it over the staff before gingerly picking it up. "Hawke, I can't keep this thing on my ship. I won't risk my men turning on each other and trying to kill each other."

"You think that's what Fenris tried to do to Anders?" asked Hawke.

She gestured to the bed with her free hand. "Use your eyes, man; it's pretty bloody obvious. No-one in the cabin, Anders looks half dead, and Fenris was the only one in here with him!"

"But he loves Anders!" protested Hawke.

"Don't we all, dearie," she said wryly. "Unfortunately, I suspect blood magic is stronger than love."

"You think it's blood magic that did this?"

Isabela shrugged. "I don't know," she confessed. "I try to steer clear of magic these days. Magic, relics, that kind of thing. You know how it is." She stared at the remains of the chest and sighed. "Bad for business, not to mention the health." She glanced back at the unconscious mage. "But the only time I've ever seen him like this was that time when those blood mages kidnapped him. It took blood magic to hold him down."

"Don't remind me," said Hawke bitterly. "If you're so keen on avoiding magic, what made you take up with Anders in the first place?"

She shrugged and smiled wistfully. "Maybe I'm just a sucker for a pretty face," she suggested.

He stared at her. "Is there something you're not telling me, Isabela?" he asked slowly.

"Oh really, Hawke, you can't go stabbing your lover in the back then be surprised when someone else moves in to mop up his tears," she drawled drily as she crossed to a wardrobe that stood in the corner and thrust the staff into it in lieu of anywhere better to put it for the time being, before crossing to sit herself on the bed beside Anders.

"You'd be the expert on backstabbing, Isabela," he retorted, pausing in the act of cleaning the blood from Fenris' face.

"Oh, come on; I came back!" she said, throwing her hands up in the air as she rose back to her feet. "I brought back that wretched book, didn't I? Are you going to hold that over me forever?" Hawke also rose to his feet, one hand resting casually on Fenris' breast. Isabela cocked her head to one side. "Besides, looks to me like you've been doing some moving on of your own," she added. "Couldn't wait to start comforting the elf yourself once Blondie was out the way, could you? Tell, me, did you actually wait until the ashes were cold before you decided to dock in his port?"

"How dare you??" growled Hawke, reaching for his blade.

"Captain! Serah Hawke! Stop this, the pair of you!" shouted Hollick, striding into the middle of the room to stare between them both. "

"Shit," said Isabela. "Listen to us. What are we doing?"

"I...." Hawke rubbed his forehead with his fingers. "Maker's balls, what came over me? Isabela, I-"

"It's that thrice-damned staff!" said Isabela. "Hawke, I told you it would cause trouble! We have to get it off this ship before my crew starts going for each other's throats. If it's doing this to us...."

"Oh, so you think I should take it back to the _Tern_ and set my crew at each other's throats?" retorted Hawke, raising an eyebrow.

"Lock it up with Chantry Boy in the brig. He deserves it," suggested Isabela with a savage grin.

Hawke smiled slowly. "I like your way of thinking," he approved.

 

* * *

 

Sebastian knelt in the darkness of the brig. They had taken the remains of his armour from him and given him a simple tunic and pants to wear. The iron manacles about his wrists chafed, but he ignored them. His hands were folded before him and he bent his head over them in prayer. In lieu of anything better to do in the darkness, it was comforting to fall back into old, familiar habits.

His prayers were not for himself. What happened to him was unimportant. There was a soul in mortal danger, and he had sworn his aid. There was little he could do from this cell to help Anders in his fight against the demon, but perhaps the Maker could aid him where one lone man could not. The desire for revenge had been eating at him for so long that to pray selflessly for help for another felt almost strange to him; and yet, it also felt good. Right, in a way so little had since the day he had received word of his family's murder.

Revenge had driven his life for so long now. First in the search for his family's murderers, and then for the deaths of Grand Cleric Elthina, the templars and all the innocents slaughtered in the destruction of the Chantry and after. When he had received word that the mage had somehow lived after all, he had been unable to think of anything but the desire for revenge; but once he had the mage at his mercy, surrendering himself willingly to Sebastian's justice; not denying his culpability in the deaths he had wrought but, indeed, plagued and tortured by what he had done; revenge seemed hollow and empty.

Yes, he could have slain Anders in the Fade, condemning him to the empty, emotionless existance of the Tranquil; but what would it have served? One man devoid of the ability to feel, reduced to an unthinking half life, would not bring back the least of the people who had died as a result of his actions. It would not bring back Elthina, or undo the injustices done in the name of the Chantry that had driven Anders to such desperation in the first place. It would not change what Meredith had done to cause the mages to rise up in desperation. It would not avert the growing tide of rebellion that was sweeping the Free Marches even now.

And it would not save the soul of one man who was fighting against the very demon that had driven him to such an act in the first place.

But he could pray for him that he might overcome this demon and destroy it. He had given Sebastian back his life and given him the chance to see how he had been destroying that life by his single-minded desire for revenge. How had he been any better, really, than any abomination? Worse, really; for he had no demon inside him to blame for his actions; though that unceasing drive for vengeance had lain him open to the enticements of a demon.

How far he had fallen from the days when he had led the Chant as an initiate....

But he didn't need to continue like that. Anders had shown him that he could change things; even though he had lost an eye, his remaining eye had been opened before it was too late. If he could bring this one mage back safely, perhaps there was a chance ; for Anders, for himself, for the magi and the templars.

And so he bowed his head and prayed fervently.

"Holy Maker, watch over Anders. Give him strength to resist the demon that holds him. Grant him Your light, that he may find his way back to Your side, Your grace, Your glorious light. Holy Andraste, come to him I pray You; be his guide even as Your words have been mine. Let him find solace, comfort and strength from Your Holy inspiration. Let Anders be victorious over Vengeance, Maker, I pray you."

"Now that's the last thing I would have expected to hear from you, Chantry Boy."

Sebastian raised his head.

"Hello, Isabela," he said quietly.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's taken longer than expected, but here it is - the next chapter. Thank you for your well-wishes and patience!

Hawke sat in the chair and watched in silence.

It had been a while since Isabela had left, taking the shrouded staff with her. A part of him idly wondered what was taking so long; the part that was not intent upon the sleeping mage.

He stared at Anders' sleeping face, his blue eyes sad and sombre. His elbows rested upon the arms of the wooden chair as he slumped against the hard back, hands steepled beneath his chin, a troubled look upon his worn features.

His gaze drifted over towards the unconscious elf and his frown deepened. If not for the faint rise and fall of his chest, one might think Fenris were dead. Uneasy, Hawke shook his head slowly.

“What have you done, Anders?” he mused softly aloud. There was no answer; Hawke expected none. He stared at the still face he had seen so often in his dreams; it seemed too unreal that they were together, reunited once more – and yet further apart than they had ever been, the mage lost within a realm where the warrior had no power to follow.

He leaned forward in the chair, still unable to tear his eyes away from Anders. He'd played out their reunion in his mind, in his dreams, so often; played over conversations, recriminations, apologies, arguments – all in the shadows of his haunted dreams. But nothing had prepared him for the truth; that he would find Anders, only to find... nothing. A breathing shell with no trace of the soul within.

Shifting forward a little, he reached out and took hold of the pale cold hand that rested limply atop the mage's breast; he held the long slender fingers between his own, rubbing a calloused warm thumb gently over the back of Anders' hand, caught up in memories of their last moments together before their worlds came crumbling down in fire and blood.

 _Hawke stared down at Anders' back. The apostate sat in silent misery, his head bowed. Bodies lay scattered around them, and the rest of the companions stood off to one side – but there was silence around Anders. He was very slightly rocking, his eyes staring sightlessly. Hawke stared down at him, trying to fathom how they had all come to that point. He glanced over to Fenris, whose eyes held the same confusion and bewilderment. Neither of them had ever guessed what Anders had planned. Three years together, and yet they could never have dreamed he would do something this desperate. Fenris regarded Anders with horrified yet compassionate eyes; as Hawke watched, the elf flexed one hand into a fist, staring down as the lyrium lines glowed, before looking back at the bowed form of the mage._

 _He glanced back to Hawke, the message plain in his jade green eyes: If Hawke would not give Anders the release he desired, then he, Fenris, would do it. Hawke stared down at the mage. The man sitting in front of him wasn't the man he thought he knew. The bowed back may as well have belonged to a stranger. He shook his head, bewilderment writ large on his face as he tried to understand; tried to grasp what on earth could be going through Anders' head right at that moment. Was it even Anders in there any more?_

 _Anders seemed to slowly come back into himself. “There's nothing you can say that I haven't already said to myself,” he said with a faint sigh. “Vengeance... took me over. There was nothing I could do to stop him.” He stared down, twisting his fingers uselessly in the palm of his hand. “I made my friend a demon,” he said quietly. “And he did this.” His voice shook._

 _“Do not hide behind your spirit!” growled Sebastian. “It was your hand that did this!” The ice-blue eyes bored with fury into the mage. Anders lowered his head.  
“Kill me now,” he said quietly. “Before there is nothing left of me.” He closed his eyes._

 _Hawke rocked slightly, closing his eyes against the stab of pain he felt as Anders asked for death. He shook his head, still trying to understand. “I know you would have changed it if you could,” he said, his tone begging Anders to confirm his words. “I might have understood... if you'd told me,” he added quietly.  
_

 _Anders shook his head. “But I have proven I cannot,” he replied. “If I couldn't control Vengeance now, I never will.” Softly he added, “I need to die.”_

 _Hawke bowed his head as he heard the certainty in Anders' voice. Certainty... and something else._

 _Exhaustion. He was tired of living, Hawke realised. He was staring at a man who had reached the limit of what he could give. Death held no fear for the apostate anymore; he merely longed for its release. An end. There was nothing for him any more; he had been merely existing up until this point, and now he was finished. Done.  
And Hawke remembered a day, years ago, when Anders had turned tearful eyes to him and drawn a promise from him that he would end the mage's life himself rather than let him live as a Tranquil slave._

 _Anders was not Tranquil... not yet... but there was no doubt in Hawke's mind that Tranquility would ultimately be the fate of the mage who had brought down the Chantry. Justice would be demanded of the murderer of Elthina and all the others whose lives had been crushed by Anders' act of destruction and desperation; and whilst Hawke and, likely, every living mage in Kirkwall would willingly die to protect Anders from such a fate, Anders himself would not wish them to die for his sake._

 _He'd planned it all from the start, Hawke realised, staring down at the bowed back of his lover. He had known he was losing control of the spirit; day by day it had slowly been taking him over. And now Anders was forcing Hawke's hand; asking him to end his life whilst it was still his to surrender._

 _Asking Hawke to let him die as himself._

 _Hawke glanced over at Fenris, who nodded._

 _“You should have done this long ago,” Anders continued. “For what it's worth... I'm glad it's you.” He smiled sadly. “It was nice to be happy... for a while.”  
Hawke looked to the others, silently pleading for help. Sebastian sneered, but Isabela looked sympathetic. Hawke flicked his glance to Fenris._

 _The elf straightened, having eyes only for his lover. An expression of sadness crossed his face, but his tone was neutral, almost resigned. “He wants to die. Kill him and be done with it.” Hawke's eyes widened, but then he saw a faint glimmer of tears in the green eyes as the hard gaze softened, and Hawke understood. Fenris could not ease his lover's pain; he did not know how. He wanted Anders to be at peace. He truly thought this was the only way._

 _Hawke's shoulders slumped. He was right._

 _Gently he rested his hand upon Anders' shoulder as he drew the black-bladed dagger and placed the tip against the blond apostate's back. Anders turned and gently kissed Hawke's fingers then lifted a hand to rest it atop Hawke's._

 _“Please make it quick,” he whispered. Hawke nodded as tears rolled down his face._

 _“I love you,” he replied brokenly. Anders closed his eyes and lowered his head._

 _Tightening his grip upon Anders' shoulder, Hawke paused for a moment – then with one smooth motion he thrust the blade between the apostate's ribs, driving it into his back.  
Anders stiffened with a slight gasp. He shuddered once, as his hand slipped away from Hawke's grip; and then with a wordless sigh he slumped to one side._

 _Hawke fell to his knees beside the dying man, reaching instinctively for him but then freezing as he stared at his hand. It was covered in Anders' blood._

 _He shrank away, staring at the blood upon his hand which was trembling. He stared back down at the limp form of Anders who lay still as blood slowly pooled around his body, wet and slick upon the cobblestones. Then he stared at his bloodstained hand again, lost in shock._

 _He'd done it. He'd killed Anders. The one person who had meant more to him than anything else in Kirkwall, and he'd killed him. His blood still wet and warm on his fingers._

 _He didn't know how long he'd knelt there; someone had pulled him to his feet, tugging at him to come away. He took a step then paused, thinking he heard Anders speak his name; but the others were tugging at him now, urging him to come quickly, the templars were attacking the Gallows and killing the mages and you have to hurry, Hawke, leave him be; he's dead, don't let his death be in vain, you have to come NOW, come on or it will be too late -”_

He drew a hoarse, ragged breath as he pulled himself out of the reverie of his memories. He blinked, his eyes stinging with the tears that flowed down his cheeks as he remembered the pain, the wrench of leaving Anders like that. It wasn't supposed to have ended that way. It wasn't supposed to have ended.

He glanced over to Fenris, who lay as though near death himself. His face was grey, and specks of blood still smeared his cheek.

“It wasn't supposed to be like this,” murmured Hawke as he stared at the two unconscious men miserably. “I don't know what to do, love,” he added, glancing back to Anders. “I don't understand magic. You were always the smart one.” He stared down at Anders' hand, white and slender between his own warm brown hands. “I never thought you would ever give up. But you did. You gave up – on life, on living, on us.” He blinked back fresh tears. “On me.” His breath hitched in his chest and for a moment he was silent, fighting down a sob. “I know...” He broke off, and bowed his head over Anders' still hand. “I know I could never mean the same to you as Fenris seems to. There's a bond between you two... there's something there that I never could match up to. I was selfish and possessive. But...” He raised his head and stared at Anders, his blue eyes dulled by pain and glazed by tears, red-rimmed. “I loved you. I still love you. And I want you to come back so I can tell you that myself. Over and over. I love you, Anders. I love you. And I need you to live and come back to me.”

Anders watched silently, helplessly from the Fade. “I love you too,” he told the unheeding warrior. But the only sound that disturbed the stillness of the cabin was Hawke's broken weeping.


	20. Chapter 20

"Hawke."

Hawke stirred, the hand over his eyes twitching briefly.

  
"Hawke." The voice was soft, mellifluous, patient. It sounded like it had been calling for some time.

"Fi' more minutes," Hawke slurred sleepily, his other hand vaguely flapping. "It... can wait fi' more minutes."

"I'm sorry, Hawke, but I really can't," replied Anders sadly.

Hawke's eyes snapped open and he lurched forward in his seat, reflexes kicking in as he stared at the blond man who sat in the bed, regarding him almost apologetically.

"I'm sorry, love," said the apostate, spreading his hands in a slight shrug. "But I had to take this chance while I could. There's not much time."

Hawke stared at Anders disbelievingly, taking in the sight of the other man, blond hair slightly lank and dishevelled as it tumbled about his shoulders, the soft white silk shirt hanging loosely upon his gaunt frame, dark shadows bruising the pale flesh beneath the tired hazel eyes. "You're awake again... at last..." Hawke breathed, and Anders smiled wanly as he plucked absently at the dark velvet coverlet spread over his legs with long, nervous fingers."Oh Maker, you've no idea how worried I've been!" cried Hawke as he flung himself upon the edge of the bed and crushed the slender man in a bear hug, burying his face into Anders' shoulder as he inhaled deeply of his scent - that heady mix of herbs, lyrium and musk that was the man himself, heightened by the tang of sharp sea salt and something else Hawke couldn't quite identify. His arms wrapped around the silk-clad form of the mage, Hawke held his love to him tightly as though sheer force of strength could keep the man there, safe, forever.

"Hawke," said Anders patiently, seemingly unbothered by the bruising strength of the grip that held him as he gently brushed the calloused fingers of one hand through the raven-black hair, his other arm gently returning the hug. "Hawke, there's little time, and there are things I have to tell you."

Hawke pulled away reluctantly, blinking tears back through a smile. "We have all the time in the world now you're awake again," he replied. "There's so much I want to tell you - I love you, I'm so very, very sorry, and things are going to be so much better and different now. You widened my eyes to so much and you have to see what I've done in Kirkwall - you should see your clinic, it's fantastic, so much better - and the Darktowners, the public health measures we've put in there - and the mages, Maker, you should see how they've bloomed - they have freedom, Anders, just like you always dreamed of! You did it, and I can't wait to show you how much things are changing! You were right - you were always right, and I wish I'd understood sooner - but you'll see, I've carried on where you left off and I love you and can you ever forgive me for-"

He fell silent as Anders pulled away a little and laid a silencing finger on Hawke's lips. "Hush, love. None of this is real."

"What do you mean? Of course it's real - you're alive, awake, I'm here, we're touching-"

"This is a dream, Hawke," replied Anders sadly. "I've been waiting until you finally started to dream so I could reach you. I don't have long; he's waiting for me."

"He...?" echoed Hawke uncertainly, not relinquishing his hold on the slender man.

"Vengeance."

Hawke slumped. "He's waiting for you...."

"He can't get into your dreams - I've seen to that. But I'm growing weak and I can't stay here long, and I need you to listen, Hawke - please, just listen."

Hawke nodded numbly, and something within Anders seemed to visibly relax. He drew a breath and ran a hand through his dishevelled hair.

"First, you have to know that Vengeance is purely demon now. Whatever was left of Justice died when you -" he broke off and frowned a little.

"Killed you," said Hawke quietly.

"Yes. That," replied Anders with a pained look before hurrying on, "but that was OK, because you did what you thought you had to do, and I asked - well no, I _begged_ you to do it really. You didn't really have much choice. It was either you or Fenris, and I hate - _hate_ \- that I had to put either of you in that position, but I was out of options, out of time and just out of... everything, really. And, it seemed the best thing in the world at the time. You can have no idea...." His voice trailed off as his gaze dropped to one side.

"Anders...."

The mage looked up and grasped at Hawke's hand, his hazel eyes suddenly intense. "I've forgiven you. I forgave you long ago. But Maker, please, can you ever forgive _me_? If ever a man deserved forgiveness less... but please, Garrett, I beg you, I just-"

Hawke silenced him by roughly grasping the mage's pale, anguished face between the palms of his hands and kissing him; long and hard then becoming tender, soft, deep, loving. Forgiving. Anders moaned breathlessly into Hawke's mouth as his eyes fluttered shut and he leaned into Hawke's chest, tears running down his cheeks. It was many long moments before they parted, and Hawke's breath hitched in his chest as he stared down at the distraught apostate who gasped "I hoped- I thought... but I didn't think you would ever- I prayed...."

Hawke shook his head, his own cheeks wet with tears. "This is so unfair, Anders. I want - no, I _need_ you. A dream is not enough."

"And yet it's all we have, love," agreed Anders, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.

"Anders." The apostate looked up with a questioning look at the sudden quiet, grave tone of Hawke's voice, then followed the warrior's gaze down to the spreading wet inky stain that was seeping through the front of his white shirt. With one hand he tore open the silk to reveal an old scar upon his chest. Perhaps an inch long, it twisted the flesh just above his heart; it had split open and was oozing a dark ichor.

"What is that?" said Hawke in a low voice.

"I said I didn't have much time," replied Anders glumly, pulling the shirt roughly closed again. "Hawke, you have to listen to me. I haven't long." 

Hawke nodded.

"Whatever Sebastian says, you must listen to him. Isabela is on her way back over with him now, an you have to do as he says. He knows far more than you think." As Hawke opened his mouth to protest, Anders raised a hand to forestall him. "I trust him. For my sake, you must do the same." Hawke closed his mouth and nodded. "Fenris will awaken soon. Leave him to Isabela." He was ticking points off on his fingers, a note of growing urgency in his voice. "There's a storm coming. You must turn the ship into it. Keep your eyes to the west; that way help will come. You won't believe it when you see it, but- well. You'll see." He broke off, pinching the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes briefly, frowning. "Oh yes, one thing more. Duck."

"What?" said Hawke.

"Now."

And then something large and heavy whizzed through the air.

Hawke dropped instantly as Anders raised a hand, and there was a sudden brief, blinding flash of light. Hawke felt a wave of heat roll over his back as magical fire hissed through the air, trailing a faint odour of sulphur behind it. There was an answering flash of vivid cold blue-white light, and as Hawke twisted upon the bed to stare back over his shoulder his eyes widened.

The black rose staff hung in mid-air, arcane energies writhing along its length as the crystal and the lyrium roses glowed with a baleful cerulean glow. It seemed held at bay by the streamers of fire issuing from Anders' hand even as the dark wet stain across his shirt grew and spread.

"You shall not have him!" roared Anders as he raised his other hand and began to sketch a glyph into the air, glowing white sigils trailing after his dextrous, practiced fingers as his eyes glittered with fierce intent. "Not whilst there be breath left in my body!"

The air in the room seemed to suddenly chill as shadows drew about the staff, and Hawke gasped as the cold seemed to bite down to his very bones, searing his lungs with burning ice with every breath he drew.

Anders laughed. "Ice, is it? You know me, Vengeance - I mastered the Winter's chill almost as long ago as I mastered fire, and you'll never equal me at either. And I have a further weapon you'll never have at your command." He dropped both hands to Hawke's shivering body, and suddenly the warm peaceful blue glow of healing magic enveloped the warrior, driving away the cold from his limbs as a tingling feeling began to flow through his body.

"You forget, Vengeance; I am a Spirit Mage. I command the power of life and death itself, able to draw upon my own life force at will. And I will willingly die to save those I love - and to deny you my own body as a vessel for you."

"But... if you die in the Fade, won't you become Tranquil?" murmured Hawke as the staff hovered there, as though indecisive, no longer pressing its attack against the warrior.

"Not if I die this way. The life force I'm drawing on comes from my sleeping body. If I die in the waking world, I will truly die and my spirit will be free - and Vengeance knows this," replied Anders quietly. With his arm about the mage's waist, Hawke could feel he was weakening steadily.

"Anders, you're killing yourself!" said Hawke, staring up into the pale face. "Please, stop - don't do this for me! Just - please, hang on! We'll get you out! You don't have to do this!"

Behind him, the walls began to melt as the staff slowly faded from view. Anders slumped slowly back upon the pillows. "It may already be too late," he murmured tiredly.

"What do you mean, 'too late'?" demanded Hawke, sitting up; from somewhere he could hear voices calling his name. He shook his head, stubbornly clinging onto Anders as the apostate closed his eyes, the glow fading from his hands. Anders shook his head.

"Remember. Listen to Isabela, to Sebastian. Look to the storm. And love, please, remember that I...."

Hawke's eyes flickered open as a hand shook his shoulder roughly, and even as he howled in denial and tried desperately to cling to the shreds of the dream, it fled. He pulled away from Isabela as he cried out in wordless pain, flinging himself towards Anders' motionless form. He spanned his trembling hands over the wet black stain that still spread out across the soft white silk over Anders' breast as it barely stirred with each imperceptible breath.

"No! You have to live!" he screamed. "D'you hear me, Anders? You have to come back to me and live, Maker damn you!"


	21. Chapter 21

As Hawke’s hands frantically tore the ichor-stained shirt from Anders’ unresisting body, Isabela started pulling towels from a drawer, tossing them onto the bed beside Hawke as Sebastian leaned out the cabin door and bellowed for hot water. On the other side of the bed, Fenris was stirring groggily.

“How long was I out for?” he muttered as he pushed himself up onto his elbows and frowned.

“Over a day,” replied Hawke distractedly as he tried to wipe up the dark fluid seeping from the opened wound over the apostate’s heart. “Maker’s balls, what is this stuff?” he added, pulling a face as the slimy liquid clung to the soft fabric in his hands and smeared over his fingers. “It smells somehow familiar, and yet....”

Fenris rolled over and pushed himself up to his knees next to Anders’ limp form, bending low as he inhaled slowly. “ _Venhedis_ , it _can’t_ be... It smells like... the Deep Roads?” he said, a note of uncertainty in his low voice. Hawke swore, echoed roundly by Isabela.

“It can’t be his Calling yet though surely?” protested Fenris as he reached for a cloth and dipped it in the bowl of hot water Sebastian brought over before suddenly twitching and then pushing himself between the one-eyed Prince of Starkhaven and the unconscious apostate. “What’s he doing here?” he snarled, glaring at Isabela.

“Calm down Broody, he’s on our side, believe it or not,” dismissed Isabela breezily as she produced a knife and swiftly began slicing Anders’ shirt from his body, pulling away shreds of stained silk as Hawke began to sluice the strange-smelling liquid from the mage’s skin. Now that Fenris had identified it, Hawke too could recognise it - that strange, half-rotten, half-metallic scent of unclean things hidden too long away from the light of day.

“Fenris, you’re glowing,” remarked Hawke briefly, glancing to the glowering elf.

“Do you mean to say you both trust him? Am I surrounded by idiots?” he growled.

“Anders told me to trust him. That’s reason enough for me,” replied Hawke.

“And Chantry Boy and I had a long talk whilst you two were snoozing like babies,” added Isabela. “Quite the fascinating tale. Not sure I believe the half of it mind - but then again, after all those years spent traipsing after Hawke you’d think I’d know better by now.”

“Fenris, I know you have no reason to trust me, but believe me - I swear by Andraste that I mean no harm to Anders. He has helped me to see more clearly with one eye than I ever saw with two.”

Fenris’ lip curled in a sneer; but before he could answer Hawke nudged his shoulder briefly. “Help me turn Anders onto his side,” he asked as Isabela tugged at the remains of the shirt still trapped beneath the mage. With a glare that told Sebastian he wasn’t finished yet, Fenris turned to help Hawke roll the unconscious man onto his side, facing towards the elf.

The back of the shirt was soaked through with more of the black fluid; as Isabela pulled it from the pale flesh of the apostate it clung to his skin. Hawke took a wet cloth and swept it over Anders’ back, cleaning away the ichor with difficulty. Wringing out the cloth, he ran a hand over Anders’ slick skin - and then froze as he felt the rough raised edges of the scar beneath the palm of his hand. There, between two ribs, where the knife had slid home, seeking the mage’s heart. Snatching his hand away as though burned, he turned it over and stared at it, covered in

_blood. His hand was covered in blood. Anders’ blood. He could feel it, over and over in his head; the hilt of his knife, its heavy weight in his hand as he set the tip against the worn suede of the coat. Just beneath where the feather pauldrons hung over the upper back of the heavy coat, between two ribs, angled a little upwards. The feeling of resistance as he pushed the knife through the leather hide of the coat, suddenly giving way as the knife thrust through that initial barrier to tear easily through the thinner patchwork leather tunic beneath. The worn linen shirt offered no resistance at all as the blade slid easily into warm living flesh that parted like soft butter, almost melting away from the unerring blade driving up through skin, muscle, seeking the heart. Anders’ gasp as the cold metal bit deep and then drove mercilessly through him. And then the blood,running hot and wet over the hilt of the knife and across his hand. The shudder as the tip of the blade reached the apostate’s heart and the shudder that ran through the man before with a sigh, he slid bonelessly from his seat to sprawl upon his side in a spreading pool of blood, the hilt of the knife wrenched from Hawke’s suddenly nerveless hand as he stared at the blood covering his fingers, his palm - blood, so much of it...._

“... Hawke? Hawke, are you alright?” Isabela’s voice held a note of concern as Fenris stared up at him, perplexed and worried. Sebastian’s hand upon his shoulder, warm and comforting.

“I’m losing him again,” Hawke managed hoarsely. “It’s all my fault. Everything. Every. Last. Thing. And now he’s dying and there’s nothing I can do to stop it this time.”

“Hawke, stop that!” said Isabela briskly, jerking him around to face her. “If you give up now then he is as good as dead. Is that what you want?” Her lip curled into a sneer not unlike that Which Fenris had given Sebastian not minutes before. “Some Champion you are! Giving up when things get tough. I told Anders he should give up mooning over you and I was right - you’re just a gutless drifter who quits like the queasiest landlubber when there’s foam atop the waves.”

Hawke stared at her, his expression of shock changing to a furious glare as he suddenly launched himself at the pirate, swinging his fist towards her face with an angry bellow. She evaded it effortlessly then double him over with a fist to the gut that robbed him of breath and dropped him to his knees, retching.

“Nice try Hawke, but you were never that fast and you’ll never be that lucky. I’ve been outrunning angry men since I was knee-high to a Qunari, and right now a blind nug could beat you. You’re not thinking straight and you’re running on reflex.” She nudged his knee with her foot. “Come on, get up, if you’ve quite finished wallowing in self recriminations. I’m sure it’ll make a wonderful scene for Varric’s next book but right now we don’t have the luxury of pity parties.”

“Did anyone tell you that you can be a real bitch, Isabela?” gasped Hawke, bracing a fist against the floor before slowly getting back to his feet.

“Frequently,” said Isabela frankly. “You make it sound like it’s a bad thing.”

“When we’ve all quite finished fighting?” said Sebastian pointedly. Isabela flashed him a bright grin.

“Oh darling, that wasn’t fighting; that was just a love tap.” She gave him a wink.

Fenris had been steadily and deliberately ignoring the scuffle, instead focussing upon Anders as he cleaned away the last of the ichor. It seemed to have stopped seeping from the reopened knife wounds, but the scars themselves looked angry and inflamed, with dark blotches mottling the skin around the broken skin and shadowy lines faintly radiating out into the white flesh.

“Hawke,” he said slowly, not looking up as he patted the damp skin dry with a towel. “You would know better than I - does this look like the Blight to you?”

“It does,” agreed Hawke reluctantly. “Though how that’s possible, I don’t know; his Warden blood is supposed to make him immune to the Blight.”

“I have a theory, if I may?” suggested Sebastian. Hawke glanced at the Prince, then nodded, gesturing to continue. As Hawke and Fenris finished cleaning Anders up then straightened the bed around the unconscious man, Sebastian began to slowly pace, hands behind his back as though he were back within Elthina’s office explaining some newly-understood liturgy rather than tentatively expanding on impossible-seeming arcane matters of spirit and magic.

“By all rights, Anders should have died when you stabbed him - and in one very real sense, I think Anders _did_ die. But somehow - Maker knows, I know not how - the last surviving fragment of what was once the spirit known as Justice managed to capture the fleeting spark of Anders’ soul, and surrendered itself in his place, allowing Anders to return to his body. But because he had died, the demon we know as Vengeance was severed from his body - driven out. It cannot possess a dead body. Whatever was done to allow Justice to possess the dead Grey Warden Kristoff’s body, Vengeance couldn’t use that route back again to reclaim its recently-deceased host.”

He paused, turned on his heel, and slowly began to pace the other way, one hand gesturing. Isabela, who had already heard this tale, quietly slipped out of the cabin to make her way aloft to check upon the ship.

“Somehow, Anders’ death and subsequent resurrection caused something to change or in some way affect the taint in Anders’ blood. I don’t know what. We don’t know what it is that the Wardens do to create more Wardens; it has something to do with magic, the Chantry believes that much - and somehow it is connected to the Darkspawn, but we know nothing further than that. The Wardens keep their secrets more closely guarded even than the Chantry itself. IIt may be that when Anders died, whatever it was that made him a Warden also died. And what was left....”

“But Kristoff was also a Grey Warden. So surely whatever was in Anders’ blood must also have been in his - so why could Vengeance take over Kristoff’s form but not Anders’?” asked Hawke.

Sebastian turned and glanced to Hawke and Fenris, and shrugged. “I do not know. Kristoff had been a warrior in life, whilst Anders was a mage. Perhaps it was the magic in his blood. Maybe it was the very change within the demon itself; perhaps as the spirit Justice it could move freely into the dead flesh, whereas the demon could only possess a living host. I am no Templar; I have not had the training in such matters that they do. It would be a matter for the Chantry itself to investigate and understand, not a failed priest such as I.” His mouth quirked in a rueful expression. “I have thought on what you told me of the magister Corypheus and how it had called to him through the taint, weakening him and even briefly possessing him?” Sebastian’s voice was uncertain; he had not been present when they had defeated the former Tevinter magister. He had had only Hawke’s brief explanation of the events after their return to work from, and there was much he had felt the warrior had hid from him. He had trusted that Hawke had had good cause, and he had come to understand why only after encountering Anders in the Fade.

Hawke nodded. “That would make sense,” he agreed. “You think that was how Vengeance is now seeking a way back in past his defenses? And this remnant of the taint within him has perhaps been... what, reawakened by him? Which means he is now succumbing to the Blight, with whatever made him a Warden having died with him?”  
“It is only a theory,” answered Sebastian apologetically.

“It’s all we have to work on,” replied Fenris tersely. “But you still have not explained why your sudden about-face where Anders himself is concerned. Why should you care if he dies of the Blight? You wished to kill him yourself, not so long ago.”

“I spoke earlier of having been blinded, and I spoke only the truth,” replied Sebastian slowly, leaning against the edge of Isabela’s desk. “For years I have been blinded by my own desire for vengeance - first against the murderers of my family, and then later against the murderer of Elthina and the Chantry. I had never questioned it, or examined how far from the Maker I had fallen in my lust for blood. Every time I raised my voice in the Chant, it was all a lie; how could I pray for the Light of forgiveness with only hatred in my heart?”

His single blue eye lifted towards the low wooden ceiling, staring beyond it. “I was dying. My templars were already dead around me, having saved me at the expense of their own lives. I was in such terrible agony that I could not appreciate their sacrifice; instead I cursed the Maker for ever having breathed life into me even as I begged Him to end my pain. I didn’t even have the strength to pray to Andraste to take me to Her eternal embrace. I had nothing left but the pain.

“I think I must have passed out from the pain, for it seemed I began to dream; and in that dream I saw a figure walking towards me across the waves, and it raised a hand towards me. I thought it were Andraste Herself come to give me blessed release, and I would have cried if I had had tears left. Then the figure placed its hand upon my breast, and I was healed.

“And it was Anders.” Sebastian lowered his head. For a moment he was silent; when he spoke again his voice was low. “I thought he had been sent to punish me. That here, when I was on the point of dying, he had been sent to drag me back to life against my will. I waited for him to gloat.”

He glanced up. “He didn’t gloat. He seemed sad. He apologised to me that he could not restore the sight in my eye. And we... talked. Well, I ranted, he listened, and made no defense of himself. And when I grew angry and drew a blade upon him, he seemed to accept it and offered to die for me, that my vengeance would be complete. And that’s when I realised we had both been the servants of the same demon.” He smiled sadly. “I had been ruled by base emotion, and he had given it succour and a host in which to grow and take root. We had both been blind in our own ways, but he shone the light of truth and I realised that we were not enemies. He had saved my life and asked nothing in return. He did it because at heart, Anders is a good man. And I realised I had misjudged him most grievously.”

He glanced at Fenris. “So that is why I am here. I owe him my life and my soul, and I swore I would stand by his side and fight this demon with him, as friend. And whilst I do not ask you to trust me, Fenris - I do ask that you trust _him_. Please.”

Fenris stared at the one-eyed Prince for several minutes in silence. Then slowly, he nodded.

“For his sake, I will.”


	22. Chapter 22

Stone was cold against his back, the chill biting through his clothes. Anders lay still, his arms by his sides, his eyes still closed.

He had rarely felt as drained and exhausted as he did right now. He could sense spirits (demons?) gathering around him, but couldn't muster the energy to raise a hand. Something brushed his cheek; he opened his eyes slowly to stare up into a pair of golden eyes that regarded him questioningly.

_You gave of your life's energy. Do you not fear dying?_

“I... don't think I do, any more. Who are you?”

A faint chuckle. _I have many names, child, but as to who I am...? ___The golden eyes continued to regard him enigmatically as he stared up into their unwavering gaze. Suddenly his own eyes widened. “You!!”

Lips parted in a slight smile, the faint emerald-tinted half-light glinting off bared teeth. _Ah, at last your eyes are opened...._

“But... I don’t understand.”

_So much is evident, child. Did you truly think you could become the stuff of legend and not draw my attention? You have dared to dream, and dreamers draw the gaze of the powerful. Did you think me somnolent once more?_

“Why have you revealed yourself now? Why not sooner?”

_The time was not yet right. Impatience will ever be the undoing of mortal men, child. War is gathering. Love and Hate fight with burning heart; legends live, and Man would be god again. Where will you stand? Would you surrender all at the moment of triumph?_

He pushed himself up onto his elbows and stared up at the face that regarded him sternly. “Triumph? I see no triumph here, only despair. All choices are ill now. I can only hope to try and protect the ones I love; there’s nothing left for me.”

_You have already learned how to die. Are you ready to learn how to live?_

He pushed himself slowly up to his feet. “What do you mean? Do you ever speak in anything other than riddles?”

A ghostly smile. _I can, when the whim takes me; but often clearer truth is revealed in veiled word, child._ She turned and walked away slowly into the darkness, hips slowly swaying as she glanced back over her shoulder. _Strength and beauty will always be destined to decay, child._

“What must I do?” Anders cried.

Her voice drifted back to him from the darkness.

_Cut the rose in full bloom._

And Anders knew what he had to do.

 

.....

 

The wind was rising as Isabela took the steps to the quarterdeck two at a time. She took a deep breath.

It was day. Somehow this seemed almost surprising to the Rivaini pirate; after the close atmosphere of the cabin, she had almost expected to find it night outside. But bright sunshine warmed the deck as a stiff, strengthening breeze belled out the yards of sail aloft, snapping the canvas taut with an audible crack over the high cries of seabirds following in the wake of the _Mage’s Pride_.

Almost it seemed the events below were transpiring in another world or dream; up here on deck, the world was very physically real, the colours bright and vivid, the sounds clear and sharp, the salty tang of the sea refreshing after the sickening taint of Darkspawn that now lingered about the dying mage.

And Isabela had no doubt that Anders was dying. She’d seen the mortally wounded often enough to recognise the signs. She’d tried to tell herself it didn’t matter; they’d had a good run together, it had been fun. There would be other men. The words rang hollow even to her.

 _I have all too few real friends_ , she couldn’t help but muse as she made her way to the rail and took readings with the octant. _I don’t want to lose even one_. She frowned, then shook her head and leaned on the rail to take the reading again. Clouds were gathering on the horizon to the west; she didn’t much like the looks of them. There was a faint greenish cast to the sky in that direction, even though the late morning sun streaming behind them was still bright and cheering.

“Isabela,” called Fenris as he climbed the steps up to the quarterdeck.

“Hello Broody,” replied Isabela without looking up from her readings. When he didn’t reply, she glanced up; he was staring over his shoulder at the gathering storm clouds. “What’s the matter, Broody, afraid of a little rough weather?”

“We’re not sailing into that, are we?” he asked, a faint note of uncertainty in his gruff voice.

“Not if I can help it,” replied Isabela as she straightened up. “We’re still down a mast from the last squall we sailed through; I don’t much fancy losing another.”

“Where to then?”

“Originally we were making for Llomerynn; I think that’s still our best bet - we’re about a day out now by my reckoning, but I don’t know if we’ll make it in time,” she replied slowly as she turned and leaned her back against the rail. Fenris made his way across the deck slowly, still not entirely steady on his feet on a pitching deck even after days at sea. “You can see as well as I can that he’ll never make it more than another day or two at most.” Fenris stilled, then placed his hands upon the rail and lowered his head.

“What do you suggest?” His voice was low and tense.

“We need to make landfall as soon as possible. I can only hope that Varric’s people will be easy to track down. If we can get a healer to Anders within a couple of hours of making dock, we might just be able to buy enough time.” She glanced up to the sails. “If this wind holds true, we should see the spires of Llomerynn at dawn tomorrow - if we can outrun the storm.”

“Isabela... if the port authorities find out he carries the Blight....”

Isabela laughed grimly. “The port authorities won’t look beyond the pouch of gold that’s waved under their noses - trust me,” she smiled. “Llomerynn’s the perfect place to disappear. If we’d made it there before you, you’d never have found us until we wanted to be found, Fenris.”

“Even so... at most we perhaps buy him a few more days of life, whilst he continues to fight against this demon in the Fade.” Abruptly he balled his hands into fists and smashed them hard down onto the railing, which splintered beneath his gauntlets. “I do not understand!” he snarled. “Anders has defeated many demons before - both in combat in the waking world and in the Fade. Why has he not defeated this demon already? We stood against Corypheus together - I know he is stronger than this!”

“I don’t know,” replied Isabela quietly. “Sebastian tried to explain some of it to me but I don’t fully understand. He thinks it has something to do with the darkspawn taint and a Grey Warden’s Calling - whatever that may be,” she added with a shrug. “Maybe his body is so busy fighting off this taint that it gives the demon an added advantage. That staff is tied in somehow too.” She glanced over at Fenris. “Your guess is as good as mine though.”

Fenris straightened slowly and stared down at his fists as he slowly uncurled them. “I wish for a foe I may face with a blade, not dreams and shadows, Isabela,” he said quietly. “It sits ill on me to stand by and watch him dying, minute by minute, helpless.”

Isabela patted his shoulder silently. Fenris lifted his eyes to hers, and she smiled sadly. “I know,” she said simply.

They stared at each other in silence, then without a word they embraced.

Overhead, the stormclouds gathered as a lone tern screamed a warning.


	23. Chapter 23

Sebastian looked up as the cabin door opened and Hawke reappeared with two bowls of stew. “The cook said I was just in time; there’s bad weather brewing and he was putting out the stove in the galley - this’ll be the last hot food for a few hours,” said the warrior as he hooked the door shut behind him with a foot. Sebastian got up to take one of the bowls from him as he made his way across the cabin towards the bed. “Best eat while you can; I daresay you haven’t had anything for a while?”

“Isabela had some gruel and water brought down as we spoke earlier, but that was all,” agreed Sebastian as he took up a spoon. “But I mustn’t be ungrateful; we have all had much on our minds other than food.” He glanced at the unconscious mage. “She told me Fenris managed to get a little broth into Anders; we should try to feed him a little more.”

“I’m not sure how to try,” confessed Hawke. “I’ve never really nursed anyone before. Not like this, anyhow.”

“Have you not?” remarked Sebastian. “No need to be nervous about it, Hawke. I often assisted in the Chantry infirmary whilst training for the priesthood. Will you permit me to assist you?”

“Please,” agreed Hawke thankfully, as the one-eyed Prince moved to Anders’ side.

“You say there’s bad weather approaching?” said Sebastian, gently spooning a little stew into the unconscious man’s mouth as Hawke cradled Anders’ head with his hands. The liquid trickled past slack lips; Anders swallowed reflexively.

“Yes; the cook warned me we’d best get ready to stay below. Isabela will try to outrun it.”

“Where were you making for?” asked Sebastian.

“I don’t know,” replied Hawke. “We were simply chasing Isabela and Anders, much as you were. I don’t know where she was intending to go - Varric reckoned she was originally due to put in at Denerim but might well aim north for Antiva instead if she knew she were being pursued. I don’t think Anders could make it as far as Antiva though - not in this state.”

“We’re going to Llomerryn,” replied Fenris as he entered the cabin. “Assuming we can outrun the storm and not get blown days off course.”

Sebastian glanced at the elf. “That is a place of ill repute,” he remarked. “It is home to rogues, thieves, pirates!”

“And the perfect place to blend in and disappear,” replied Hawke. “Not somewhere I’d expect to find skilled healers though.”

“It’s the nearest landfall however,” replied Fenris. “And Isabela tells me that Dalish elves have set up an enclave there; with any luck we may even find Merril there. We should be at port by dawn-” He broke off abruptly, bracing himself against the wall with a steadying hand as the _Mage’s Pride_ suddenly heeled sharply over to starboard. “Maker!” exclaimed Sebastian as stew slopped over him. Hawke braced himself with one hand against the headboard of the bed, the other hand still cradling the unconscious apostate.

“It seems the storm is already upon us,” Fenris muttered, glancing up at the cabin windows; beyond the diamond-paned glass the sea was grey, the wave tops whipped into white foam.

“Can we outrun it?” asked Sebastian.

“No - we have to sail into it!” replied Hawke. Sebastian and Fenris both stared at him as though he were mad. “No, listen to me - Anders told me a storm would be coming and we must turn into it!”

Sebastian and Fenris exchanged glances.

 

.....

 

“No, absolutely not!” snapped Isabela, throwing her hands up. “That’s utterly insane. If we turn the ships into the storm, we’ll all be dead. We’ll lose far more than just one mast!”

“Isabela, Anders saw the storm coming. He told Hawke-”

“Yes, yes, I know what Hawke says Anders said,” replied Isabela, interrupting Sebastian. “And after months at sea Anders should bloody know better than that! All that time spent stuck in the Fade has cracked what little brains he had left, I swear!”

“Isabela-” began Hawke, but broke off as Fenris shook his head with a frown. Hawke glanced from the elf back to the Rivaini woman as she paced the quarterdeck, gesticulating with one hand; and he saw what Fenris had - that beside the obvious anger, there was fear in Isabela’s eyes and a nervous energy driving her pacing. Fear for her ship and crew - and by extension, for the _Kirkwall Tern_ also - but also for Anders. Her anger was directed at the one person she couldn’t rail at.

“Damn him, and damn me too,” she muttered. She paused by the rail and stared up at the sails for long moments in silence. Finally her mouth twisted in a small _moue_ of distaste before she flung one hand up in resignation. “Anders, if you’ve got this wrong, I swear I’ll have your ears,” she snarled before bellowing out orders to reef in the mails’ls. “Tops’ls only. Bring her about, Mr Hollick, and run up this signal to the _Tern_ \- _make for the eye._ ”

She turned and glared at the others. “Well? Landlubbers below - or get yourselves on a line. I’ll have no gawkers getting in my crew’s way - if you stay on deck you’ll work as hard as any of my crew.”

Sebastian unhesitatingly clipped himself onto the nearest line. Fenris and Hawke conferred briefly, then Fenris likewise clipped himself onto a line. “You’ll fetch me the moment he needs me?” he asked Hawke, who nodded.

“You sure you want to stay up here? After how sick you were-”

“It will be worse below decks,” affirmed Fenris. “At least up here I can breathe.”

Hawke nodded. Patting the elf awkwardly on one spiky shoulder, he turned and made his way below, picking his way carefully as the deck pitched and rolled on the darkening storm-tossed sea.

There were mutterings amongst the crew as they raced to obey Isabela’s bellowed commands. Hollick shook his head as he took the helm and brought the _Mage’s Pride_ about to head on a tack into the storm. “This is foolishness, Captain,” he said in a low voice as she came to stand beside him to check the ship’s compass.

“I know, Hollick, but you’ll just have to take me on trust I’m afraid.”

“Aye, and I do Captain - we all do. But who are you taking on trust, Captain? A dying man and his lover’s dreams? That’s no way to sail a ship....”

Isabela gave him a sharp look. “You forget your place, Hollick,” she said warningly.

“I’m only saying what the crew will be thinking, Captain. It’s a damn queer set-up, and the men are getting antsy over it. Some are saying the mage bewitched you.”

“Which ones?” A note of pure ice ran through her voice; Hollick shook his head.

“No matter, Captain; I’ve dealt with them as started it and I’ll deal with any that try to carry it on. But you should know how the wind blows.”

“Appreciated, Hollick,” replied Isabela tersely as she snapped the cover shut over the compass. “Keep her on this heading and ‘ware the wind.”

“Aye Captain,” agreed the First Mate. As she turned away, he quietly added under his breath, “And may ye do the same.”

If Isabela heard him, she gave no sign.

 

.....

 

Below decks, the motion of the ship was much more evident. She pitched and rolled with every wave, and Hawke had to pick his way carefully past various items that had fallen from shelves or the large desk; most of the maps and charts strewn across its surface had stayed in place - mainly due to being transfixed by strategic knives.

Anders at first glance looked no different; his face was grey, a hint of blue about his lips, dark shadows beneath his eyes. His head rolled bonelessly upon the pillow with each pitch of the ship. As Hawke drew nearer however, he could see faint snaking tendrils of grey like smoke beneath the white skin, inching up from beneath the collar of the linen shirt and along the line of the apostate’s jaw; as the warrior lifted up one ice-cold hand, he saw further lines of corruption winding out from beneath the cuff of the sleeve to trace across the back of Anders’ hand.

Anyone who had lived through the Blight in Ferelden knew the signs; the marks of the taint as it took hold upon a body were unmistakable.

Hawke shook his head, and sighed as he tucked the icy hand under the coverlet. He stared into Anders’ face for a long time. More familiar to him than his own it seemed - and yet, at the same time, almost a stranger.

The wooden walls of the cabin creaked and groaned as the ship shuddered under the onslaught of the storm. She heeled over hard to port, and Hawke cried out as he was sent hurtling across the cabin, colliding heavily with the wall along with a myriad of small, hard objects & detritus - some of it heavy. His head struck the edge of a shelf and he reeled, stunned, before his legs abruptly gave up on trying to remain vertical when the deck seemed to be intent on sending him horizontal, and he slid down to the floor, only the cabin wall at his back keeping him moderately upright. A thin rivulet of blood, hot against his skin, trickled into his eye and he blinked.

Anders had remained in the bed, pinioned in place by the covers whilst the bed itself remained solidly in place, firmly bolted to the floor - as was the desk, for which Hawke was grateful; he shuddered to think of the damage that two large heavy pieces of furniture like that would cause if they shifted around during such a storm. He began to doubt his wisdom in having come below deck after all; Anders’ condition was unlikely to change much.

A large wave smashed against the cabin windows, and abruptly the pane nearest him shattered, spraying razor-sharp shards of glass and salt sea spray across the room. Hawke ducked, bringing an arm up to protect his face from flying glass even as the ship lurched and shuddered, the port side dipping lower and lower towards the sea. As Hawke dared to peer out from behind his upraised arm, he felt something cold and wet slap against his leg, soaking his trousers through; and he realised with horror that the windowsill had dipped beneath the level of the waves and seawater was rushing in through the broken pane.

Scrambling to his feet despite the dizziness and pain from his head wound, Hawke forced his way through the detritus in the cabin towards the window, snatching up a heavy tapestry that had fallen from a wall and wadding it up before forcing the thick cloth into the hole. He could feel the fabric grow heavier and chill to the touch beneath his hands as it soaked through almost immediately.

“I could use a little help here!” he yelled, feeling panic start to rise.

 

.....

 

Fenris clung to the line, drenched to the skin and chilled to the bone as the ship’s deck tilted beneath his feet, the boards slick with seawater and giving little purchase even to his bare feet. He dimly wondered how it was that Isabela managed to stay upright in her leather boots. _Sheer stubbornness,_ he thought dourly, before the ice-cold slap of water in his face temporarily drove all thought clean from his mind.

Isabela had been right; it was pure madness to sail straight into the storm like this. If he survived this lunacy, Fenris swore he would never set foot on a boat ever again.

He was near-deaf from the unceasing screaming of the wind, and his ears felt numb - as did his hands and feet. He could barely feel the thick coarse rope between his hands as he hauled upon it; he was aware of streaks of blood upon the sisal, but his hands were so frozen from the cold that he felt no pain though doubtless that would change later - if, indeed, there _was_ a later. All around them the protestations of straining timbers gave the ship’s cry in answer to the imprecations of the wind; if the men of the crew cried out at all, Fenris couldn’t hear them above the cacophany of vessel and storm.

The ship lurched and shuddered again, and he felt her leaning over hard to the left until the deck was near vertical beneath his feet. He glanced up in time to see the a wave come sweeping up over the rail towards him where he was fastened onto the line; he barely had a moment to gasp a deep breath before abruptly he was dragged beneath the freezing surface of the grey sea.

It was like being grasped in a fist of ice; he had to fight hard not to draw an instinctive gulp of breath as the chill bit to his very bones in very real, very visceral pain. It clawed to the very centre of his being in seconds that felt like hours as he reached his hands towards the surface which seemed so very far away, his chest aching to hold in the precious air against the pressure upon his chest. Everything was grey and black; he didn’t know which way was up, and panic set upon him. He lashed out desperately.

And then the _Pride_ rolled back upright again, and he was sent sprawling upon the wet decks, gasping for air and shuddering. There was a hand upon his shoulder, and Sebastian was shouting something in his ear that he couldn’t hear. He retched.

“Fenris! Are you alright?” repeated Sebastian, his mouth a scant inch from the half-drowned elf’s ear, and finally Fenris heard him. After a moment, he managed to nod, the movement jerky and unco-ordinated. He stared down at his torn and bleeding palms and dimly wondered why he felt no pain, only cold. He wondered if he would ever feel warm again.

“You should get below!” Sebastian yelled, his strong voice barely perceptible over the banshee wailing of the wind and sea. It took several repetitions before the elf seemed to grasp what the Prince was telling him; finally Fenris shook his head. Sebastian saw him form the word _no_ although no sound made it above the sounds of splintering wood as the top third of the main mast gave way and the top sail was ripped away by the wind. Shaking his head, Sebastian unclipped Fenris from the line and fastened the elf’s safety harness to his own before slinging the half-conscious and dazed warrior’s arm over his shoulder and hauling him upright. Slowly they made their way aft towards the quarterdeck.

Isabela didn’t spare him a glance as he dragged Fenris over towards the rear rails; she and Hollick were wrestling with the wheel, fighting to keep the ship steered on course. Sebastian sat Fenris down on the deck and began lashing him to the rail with a length of rope about the slender warrior’s waist and torso. As Sebastian made to pull away, Fenris grasped his wrist.

“We’re not going to make it,” said the elf.

Sebastian had no answer. He could only return Fenris’ despairing gaze with his own. “We have to try,” he finally replied before pulling away.

The ship jerked, and then Isabela screamed as the wheel wrenched itself from her grasp, throwing Hollick aside as it suddenly span wildly and out of control. “The rudder’s gone!” she cried. Sebastian clung to the rail as the ship careened round, now completely at the mercy of wind and wave as she began to turn to windward.

“She’ll go under if she goes broadside to the wind!” screamed Isabela, staring up aghast at the remaining sails which were ripping free of the reefing. All around them was the sound of tearing canvas as the storm shredded the heavy cloth as though it were only so much fine Orlesian silk. Isabela’s face was white, and her face wet - whether with tears or rain, Sebastian couldn’t tell.

Suddenly her eyes widened as she stared into the heart of the storm. Sebastian followed her gaze; there, tiny against the maelstrom but steadily growing, something was flying towards them from out of the west, and Isabela’s despairing cry only echoed the sinking feeling in his heart.

“Of course there’d be a dragon,” he said helplessly.


	24. Chapter 24

The ship was listing alarmingly to port and sitting low in the water. In the cabin, water was lapping at Hawke’s knees as he tried futilely to stem the flood of seawater as it cascaded in through the shattered window. Blood was dripping in his eye from the cut across his forehead, and concussion was making him feel dizzy and sick. He had no idea how long he’d been bellowing for help, but none had come. As he cast his glance despairingly around the cabin, he realised there was nothing he could do; the ship was taking on water, and if he stayed below deck there was a very real chance both he and Anders were going to drown.

Staggering up against the slant of the sodden deck, he reached for his and Fenris’ swords and slung them upon his back before struggling against the rising waters towards the bed. The covers were soaking wet with seawater and clung damply to the unconscious mage; with difficulty Hawke managed to strip away the bedding. Anders was soaked to the skin; Hawke caught him before he could fall into the dark cold water that slowly was filling the cabin, and hauled him bodily up out of the bed, somehow managing to sling the tall man over his shoulder before turning and starting to fight his way over towards the door. Flotsam and jetsam bumped against his legs as the waters rose over his knees, lapping at his thighs and edging higher. Anders’ limp white fingers trailed in the water as Hawke struggled with the door. Finally he yanked it open and hauled himself and Anders up out into the passageway.

The wooden floorboards were slowly canting up beneath his feet; even as Hawke pulled himself bodily along the passageway, he could feel the water lapping around his ankles. Anders was a dead weight over his shoulder; black spots were dancing in front of his eyes, but he dared not stop. He pushed on, shouldering open the door out onto the main deck, then paused, blinking.

The storm still screamed and howled its fury around the stricken ship, with the voices of panicking men barely perceptible over the tumult of the maelstrom. The main mast was gone, ripped away entirely, and the ship was drifting aimlessly without her rudder, heeling over on her side under the onslaught of the wind. Slipping and staggering, Hawke made his way towards the quarterdeck; dimly he was aware of the cries around him to abandon ship - and then Sebastian was at his side, steadying him and helping to support the weight of the unconscious Anders. Hawke was vaguely aware that the Prince was asking him something - saying something about a dragon.

“Ship’s sinking. Taking on water below,” Hawke cried back over the wind. “What dragon?”

Then Sebastian took him firmly by the shoulder and turned him round.

“Oh. _That_ dragon,” said Hawke.

It soared overhead, its wings vast and seeming black against the grey sky; it was easily the length of the _Mage’s Pride_ , and the stricken ship was utterly helpless before it. Men screamed in terror and dove over the battered weather rails of the ship, disappearing into the foam-whipped grey waves, never to be seen again - choosing the icy depths and drowning over dragon fire and claws. Hawke and Sebastian watched silently as the dragon swooped low over the ship then out across the waves, banking round for another pass, then hurriedly they pushed on up to the quarter deck.

Isabela stood guard over the unconscious Fenris, who was tightly lashed to the ship’s rail. Sebastian and Hawke deposited the mage next to the elf and hastily bound him safely to the rail, looking anxiously over their shoulders as the dragon wheeled over the sea, looping lazily around the drifting ship. Then Hawke unslung Fenris’ blade and handed it to Sebastian even as he readied his own blade. The two warriors flanked Isabela as she watched the dragon, a long fighting knife in each hand. The first mate, Hollick, stood nearby, an axe readied in his hand.

“Almost like old times, Hawke!” remarked Isabela. “You do know how to show a girl a good time!”

“You’ve always had a very strange idea of fun, Isabela,” remarked Sebastian as the dragon wheeled and turned towards the ship once more.

“Live a little, Chantry Boy!” she quipped back at him.

“I’d like to get the chance,” he replied drily. “I think yon dragon has other ideas though.” He readied the two-handed greatsword and regarded the huge winged reptile ruefully with his one good eye.

And then the dragon was upon them, in a roar and a belch of fire that roiled around and over them... yet strangely didn’t touch them at all, even as they flinched in spite of themselves. As the flames winked out around them, they peered disbelievingly from behind raised arms to stare incredulously at the white-haired woman who was striding slowly down the main deck of the _Pride_ towards them.

“Well, well, well. What a welcome from the Champion of Kirkwall,” purred Flemeth. “And Prince Vael too. Tell me, my one-eyed Prince; what good do you think that sword will do you against the rising sea that even now is claiming this ship? Can you sail with it to shore? Can you catch the wind with its blade?” She chuckled throatily.

“Who are you?” breathed Sebastian. “What manner of witch are you?”

“A witch indeed,” replied Hawke, lowering his blade as he straightened. “Sebastian, this is Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds.”

“Then the legends are true?” exclaimed Sebastian, likewise lowering his weapon as Isabela sheathed her blades.

“True enough,” replied Hawke as Flemeth merely smiled. “Your timing is, as ever, impeccable, Flemeth,” he added. “I don’t suppose you’ve decided to finally teach me that trick of yours? Dragon wings would be very useful right now.”

“I have come for another purpose, though your purpose and mine may run together for the moment, child,” replied Flemeth as she slowly mounted the steps to the quarterdeck. Around them the storm was abating; and the shifting, creaking sounds of the ship as she slowly settled deeper in the water were becoming more audible over the dying winds.

“Not good,” muttered Isabela. “Come on girl, keep afloat just a little longer....”

Flemeth gestured with one gauntleted hand towards the unconscious mage. “There is a small matter that concerns us both, Champion; a life that hangs in the balance, and yet so much more hangs upon that balance than you could possibly dream. Tell me: what would you give for his life?”

“Anything,” replied Hawke instantly.

“Hawke!” objected Sebastian. “You do not know what price she will ask or even if she is capable of doing as she says!”

“Sebastian, I already know of her power. I owe my life to her. She brought us out of Lothering during the Blight.”

“And that debt was repaid upon Sundermount,” nodded Flemeth. “Now I offer another bargain. I say again: what will you give for his life?”

“Anything that is in my power to give,” replied Hawke. “My life.”

Isabela drew her breath in sharply and glanced back at Fenris, who was stirring slightly, then back at Hawke. But she said nothing as she dropped back to kneel by the elf’s side.

“A princely gift indeed. It may yet come to that.”

“How do we know we can trust you?” demanded Sebastian. She turned her golden gaze upon the Prince.

“You can’t,” she replied simply. “Know only that I am here to fulfill a purpose. It suits _my_ purpose at this time to aid you, but I care not whether you trust me. Your trust is immaterial. Does the blacksmith ask the steel’s trust before shaping it into the blade?” She turned away with a faint hiss of leather skirts over damp wood. The deck was listing more sharply now.

“What secret are you hiding, witch?” demanded Sebastian. “Why would you aid us - and what do you want with Hawke and Anders?”

Flemeth stared back over her shoulder at Hawke, ignoring the Prince. “Come. Do we have an accord, you and I?”

“We have no choice,” replied Hawke heavily. Slowly he nodded. “Yes. We do.”

Even as Sebastian cried out in objection, Flemeth smiled and turned back towards them, her form beginning to shimmer and glow golden before changing.

Then the dragon reached for Anders with one huge taloned claw.


	25. Chapter 25

Isabela held firmly onto Fenris as she gripped the neck of the dragon firmly between her thighs and grinned fiercely into the wind. This was the most exhilarating ride she'd ever had in her life - and she'd had more than her fair share of wild rides in her life. She couldn't restrain the crazed laughter that burst from her lips, to be torn away by the wind as soon as uttered.

Hawke was not enjoying himself however. He clutched tightly onto the dragon, his knuckles white as he held on fast to a scale the size and thickness of a buckler shield, and fervently wished for the flight to be over. Below them, the _Kirkwall Tern_ raced breezily along, all sails spread to the magical wind that flew ahead of the great blood-red dragon as she soared effortlessly over an otherwise-tranquil sea in the very eye of the storm. All around them the sea was tossed into a terrifying maelstrom - but here, around the dragon and the ship, bright sunshine shone down onto a circle of calm through a gap in the clouds overhead. It was eerily quiet, and Hawke could not quell a feeling of unease.

The _Mage’s Pride_ had sunk in a matter of minutes after her crew had abandoned it entirely for the _Tern_ , which had fared a little better in the storm. Hawke had leapt for the dragon as she scooped up the unconscious Anders in one vast clawed hand, but to his surprise Flemeth had been almost tender in her treatment of the dying man. She had cradled his limp form to her armoured breast before crouching upon the quarterdeck, the ship sinking lower into the waves. She turned glowing white eyes upon the small figures huddled upon the deck, then lowered her head.

“I think she means us to ride,” said Sebastian in a tone of wonderment.

“You mean, on her? We get to ride a dragon?” exclaimed Isabela. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“It’s that or drown,” replied Hawke as he drew a knife and bent over Fenris, cutting the half-conscious elf loose from the rails. “Fenris is in no fit state to ride,” he observed.

“Leave him to me,” replied Isabela as she slung the elf’s arm over her shoulders then rose to her feet, pulling him up after her. “I can’t believe we get to ride a dragon. I take back everything I ever said about you, Hawke; you really know how to impress a girl!”

“What do you mean, ‘everything you’ve ever said about me’?” objected Hawke as he laced his fingers together and then gave Isabela a leg up the side of the dragon before helping her to pull Fenris up after her.

“Could we perhaps discuss this later - when we’re not standing on a sinking ship, perhaps?” suggested Sebastian, looking down with alarm at the water lapping at his ankles as it swept across the quarterdeck.

Hawke glanced around. “Where’d Hollick go?” he asked in surprise.

“He dived overboard the moment Flemeth turned into a dragon,” called down Isabela from the dragon’s neck where she was settling Fenris in place in front of her, a protective arm looped around his waist as he slumped against her, blinking dazedly as he shivered. “One of the lifeboats is picking him up; I can see them from here. Bloody cowards, the lot of them!” She sounded remarkably cheerful for someone whose ship was sinking beneath their feet.

Hawke clambered awkwardly up the flank of the dragon to settle himself in the slight hollow at the base of her neck, just forward of the immense wings which were stretching and unfurling. Sebastian swung himself up to sit just in front of Hawke with far greater ease and grace despite the lack of an eye. _Maybe it’s one of those things they teach princes up in Starkhaven,_ thought Hawke. _Eating with the right fork, dealing with uppity noblemen at the Landsmeet, how to mount a dragon without making an idiot of yourself_. He held on grimly as the dragon crouched for a moment longer, the waves now slapping against her legs; and then with a strong downbeat of those immense leathery wings she leapt up into the air.

Hawke’s head snapped back painfully as the dragon propelled herself swiftly into the air and away from the sinking ship. He blinked away tears as the fierce wind stung his eyes, clinging on grimly as the dragon slowly, almost leisurely circled the stricken ship which was inexorably succumbing to the waves. As the dragon’s vast wings beat steadily upon the air and they gained height, the air around them seemed to calm, the waves rowing smaller and rolling more smoothly as they closed over the remaining mast of the _Mage’s Pride_ ; within moments, Isabela’s ship was gone.

“She was a good ship; she served me well,” mused Isabela a little sadly. “Ah well. I can always steal another. Like the _Tern_.” She grinned at the thought.

“I’m sure Varric would give her to you if you asked,” replied Fenris groggily.

“Oh, hush, you; you’re spoiling my fun,” replied Isabela.

Now they sped on, the dragon somehow driving the ship on before them and keeping them all safe from the storm. Not for the first time, Hawke wondered at Flemeth’s purpose - she had some use for Anders, that much was plain, and for Hawke himself. He could understand her extending her aid to Sebastian, Isabela and Fenris as his companions. But the ship and crew? That seemed rather generous for the Witch of the Wilds. But then again, when all was said and done, the woman called Asha’Bellenar by the elves was still very much an enigma to the human warrior called Hawke.

Flemeth’s reasons were her own; for now her purpose and theirs seemed to be in common, and Hawke would just have to trust that that would last long enough to see them through. He wondered what fate he had promised himself to however.

 _It doesn’t matter,_ he told himself. Anything would be worth the price to save Anders, to save him from the demon plaguing him.

To save him from his Calling. From the Blight.

Damn it, he’d lost so many loved ones; Carver gone to the Wardens (and damn it, for all the differences between them, he would have given a great deal to be able to talk with his brother right now; maybe the Wardens would have some idea how to deal with this whole mess), Bethany, their mother... Lothering.... The Blight had changed everything, and now it was taking Anders from him though he had no idea how.

That was the worst of it; the not knowing, not understanding. He might die without ever really knowing, and that seemed the most galling thing of all.

He stared at Sebastian’s broad back as the prince sat seemingly unconcerned, as though he were out for a ride on a favoured stallion on a sunny afternoon and not swooping along at fell speed high above an enchanted ocean upon the back of a dragon, like something out of legend. How did he do that, damn him?? _Bloody princes._

Had Hawke been privy to the thoughts in Sebastian’s head, he would have been surprised. Sebastian barely dared to move - even to breathe. He was terrified and awestruck in equal measure. Was he dreaming? The sharp wind that cut his face and drew tears from his single remaining sky-blue eye unmercifully would seem to indicate he was awake, and yet it all seemed too utterly fantastic to be real. It had to be a dream.

And yet he could feel the dragon’s muscles shifting, stretching, contracting, moving beneath him; he could hear the creak of leathery hide as the vast powerful wings beat unceasingly, driving them onward. Heat radiated from the very skin of the dragon, palpable through the borrowed leather trews he wore. He felt warm in spite of the thin linen shirt and the coarse wool tunic; glancing forward, he could see the warmth was reviving Fenris also, for which he was glad - he had feared the elf was seriously affected with hypothermia following his near-drowning, but now he could see the elf sitting more upright and seeming more himself as he conversed with Isabela. Sebastian closed his eyes and briefly offered up a fervent prayer of thanks to Andraste.

Then Fenris said something to Isabela, and she turned back to shout to the others.

“Land ahoy!”

Opening his eyes, Sebastian leaned forward to stare ahead into the wind. It was hard to be certain, but there seemed to be a dark blue-grey smudge upon the horizon that was slowly growing as they sped on over the sea’s surface.

Llomerryn.


	26. Chapter 26

The dragon circled slowly and gracefully over the aravels of the Dalish encampment, whilst below the elves gathered, a single dark-haired figure standing alone near the centre of the large circle they formed regarded them intently with no sign of fear as the dragon glided down towards her. As the dragon touched lightly yet majestically down upon the green grass, the figure swept down into a low bow.

“Andaran atish’an, Asha’Belannar; we are honoured by your presence,” said Merrill as Hawke and the others dismounted - some with more grace than others. The dragon surrendered the unconscious Anders into Hawke’s arms as four Dalish elves came forward at a gesture from Merrill, bearing a wooden bier draped with soft furs and garlanded with small yellow and white flowers. “Your coming and your burden have been foretold.”

The dragon’s form shimmered golden, then shrank and changed as Flemeth retook her humanoid form. “As I would have expected from the Keeper of her People, Merrill. At long last your eyes are opened...but still, do they truly see, I wonder?” She turned away from Merrill and regarded Hawke thoughtfully as he gently laid Anders down upon the bier.

“We have not much time; and yet all of time will shortly be upon our side. Tell me, child: will you hold to your promise to pay whatever price is asked for the life of your beloved? Even should I tell you that he perhaps holds the key to destruction beyond your imagination?”

“The Blight... the shemlen has the Blight!” cried out one of the Dalish standing closest to the bier as he shrank away in sudden fear. A ripple of consternation ran through the gathered people; some broke away from the crowd and fled back towards the aravels.

“Foolish children; it is not the corruption of this one’s body that you should fear but the corruption that fear will grow within your own hearts. One man’s death means little compared to the danger you already harbour without knowing it.”

Hawke knelt beside Anders and took his pale hand between his own. The tracery of grey across the back of his hand was clearly visible now, and his breathing was shallow and uneven. He glanced up again at Flemeth.

“What is this danger that he poses, beyond the Blight? There’s something he has that you want, and I’ll bet it’s not the darkspawn taint. What’s going on, Flemeth?” he asked quietly.

“Now is the moment when fledglings must spread their wings and learn if they truly can fly, child.” Flemeth’s gaze was sympathetic. “I can only hope that your heart is equal to the task.”

“My heart? I don’t understand,” replied Hawke.

Flemeth turned to Merrill. “The way has been prepared. There can be no further delay.”

Merrill bowed her head once more. “Ma nuvennin,” she acquiesed, turning and gesturing towards a large pavilion that had been set up a little to one side. Tall posts had been set into the ground around it, like a cage left open to the sky; a gateway had been left open in the side nearest to where they stood, and two torches burned either side of the open doorway of the canvas pavilion. Flemeth strode ahead towards the tent, leaving the others to follow.

Sebastian, Fenris, Hawke and Isabela each took up a corner of the bier then lifted it up, bearing Anders towards the tent. Merrill fell into pace beside Hawke as they walked.

“So... Keeper?” said Hawke.

“I know; I don’t seem the sort, do I? I’ve always been terrible with people,” she agreed. “After the Chantry fell, the people of the alienage felt that Kirkwall was no longer safe. Many of our kind perished at the hands of the Templars as they raged through the city, including the hahren. As the only one with any training, they turned to me.” She shrugged. “Lucky old me. Anyway, Isabela had told me so much about Llomerryn, it seemed like a good place to go. And then there was the Eluvian shard-” She suddenly gasped and clapped her hands over her mouth in alarm.

“Oh, Kitten. What have you done now?” sighed Isabela.

“I thought you destroyed the Eluvian?” said Hawke sharply.

“I did! Well... most of it, anyhow.”

“ _Most ___of it?” pressed Hawke.

“It was only a little piece!” protested Merrill. “It was a pretty shape. I thought... I could wear it as a necklace maybe.”

Sebastian and Isabela groaned. Hawke just sighed. “Go on, Merrill; what did you do?”

“Well, nothing really; it just spoke to me is all. Well, Asha’Belannar, really. And there were the dreams.”

“It didn’t occur to you that it might have been a demon masquerading as Flemeth?” suggested Sebastian.

“Oh yes,” replied Merrill. “But it wasn’t like that. And when she told me about the archdemon-”

“Archdemon?” echoed Isabela, Sebastian and Hawke in unison.

“Oops, I’ve said too much again, haven’t I?” said Merrill unhappily. “I’ll just shut up now.”

“No, wait-” protested Hawke, but at that point they passed between the burning torches and Flemeth was turning to regard them, a tall wrapped bundle in one hand.

“What’s this about a shard of the Eluvian and an archdemon?” demanded Hawke. Flemeth turned to Merrill and raised an eyebrow.

“I didn’t mean to, I swear it; it just sort of slipped out!” protested Merrill.

“Truth will find a way out, child; the tighter you try to grasp it, the faster it will slip from your fingers,” the Witch admonished before turning to Hawke. “The Eluvian was none of my doing, though I will confess it served a most useful purpose. It made my task so much easier.”

She gestured, and they set down Anders’ bier in the centre of the tent; six low cots were spaced in a circle around it, a tall pillar candle set upon a wrought silver stand placed between each one. As Flemeth slowly paced around the group and the bier, each candle flared into life.

As she returned to stand by Anders’ head, she uncovered the bundle to reveal the staff. Hawke swore. “How did -”

“Wherever Anders goes, the Rose Staff will follow. It has bound itself to him; wherever he goes, it will follow, as surely as his demon pursues him within the Fade.”

“We cannot break it,” replied Fenris. “I have tried - to my cost.”

“Brave, foolish child!” declared Flemeth. “You cannot destroy that which is not of this world by mere might! And to do so at this point would mean his death. Would you save him by killing him?”

“Then what can we do - and what’s all this about an archdemon? I thought the archdemon was killed at the end of the Blight?” remarked Hawke.

“And so it was; but first tell me - what do you know of archdemons, child?”

“It is taught by the Chant that the archdemons are the Old Gods, awakened by the darkspawn and driven mad by the corruption of their taint,” replied Sebastian. “They were false gods who drew mankind’s worship away from the Maker, and for that He imprisoned them far beneath the earth, to sleep for all time in punishment for their conceit. The darkspawn seek them unceasingly, and when they awaken one it rampages forth, unleashing another Blight upon Thedas.”

“Good,” purred Flemeth. “Now tell me, how do you kill that which may not die?”

“The Grey Wardens,” replied Hawke. “Only a Grey Warden can kill an archdemon. I don’t know how, but everyone knows only the Grey Wardens can end the Blight.”

“When corruption meets corruption, it devours itself utterly,” replied Flemeth. “Neither can survive.” As she spoke, Merrill moved towards a low table set to one side and began unwrapping bundles of herbs. She set a small kettle of water over a fire and seated herself cross-legged before the low table, chanting softly over the herbs in elvhen. Her hands glowed as she handled each item.

“There are some who yet know the ancient spells and rituals needed to capture a small portion of that energy at the moment of destruction however, and harness it for another use. My daughter intended to do just that at the moment of the destruction of Urthemiel; only time will tell if she were successful - and she may yet come to regret such tampering,” Flemeth added with a wry smile. “Yet she was not the first.”

“You mean, the Rose Staff contains an archdemon?” exclaimed Hawke.

“A part of one, perhaps,” agreed Flemeth. “Andoral, I believe.”

“You mean Anders has been toting around a piece of the archdemon Andoral for the past few months?” remarked Isabela, lifting an eyebrow in surprise.

“You’d be surprised what you can pick up in the strangest places,” shrugged Hawke. “Dragons in disguise, archdemon fragments....” His tone was flippant but he fixed Flemeth with a shrewd glance. She merely smiled at him in return.

“What does the archdemon intend with Anders?” asked Sebastian, staring down at the unconscious mage. “Why does he seem to draw so many demons around him?”

“Good question,” replied Hawke. “As if Vengeance weren’t bad enough.” He knelt down beside the bier and gently stroked an errant strand of blond hair away from the closed eyes. The marks of the Blight were clear upon his face now, dark grey veins of corruption spread beneath the pale skin and pooling dark around his eyes and his mouth. It was like staring at a younger version of Larius, the former Grey Warden Commander who had aided them against Corypheus. He was suddenly struck by a thought. “There’s something more than the taint at work here, isn’t there?”

“Perceptive child,” nodded Flemeth. “One cannot harbour a spirit within one’s soul and not remain unscathed. He is no abomination but something far more.”

“And what do you want with him?” asked Isabela. “And what’s the danger to Hawke?”

“If he submits to the corruption in his veins, Andoral will be able to possess him and be reborn into this world anew - not as an archdemon, but Andoral-as-was. This world is not yet ready to face one of the Old Gods restored to their full power - and what better form to take but that of a talented mage such as your friend?” replied Flemeth. “And he would unleash such a Blight upon this world that all of Thedas could not contend against him.”

“And if Vengeance succeeds?” replied Hawke, glancing up at Flemeth. “What then?”

“The demon would seek to draw upon the power of the staff - and become the most terrible abomination ever to take flesh under the sun,” she replied simply. “Not merely an unthinking monster, but an all-powerful being retaining all its intelligence and power, augmented and directed by a fragment of an Old God. Either way, the man you knew will be gone - and in his place, a terror that will sweep all before it and make the Blight seem a summer stroll by comparison.”

“Maker, how do we stop them?” breathed Sebastian. “Is that what you brought us here for? Not merely to save Anders, but all of Thedas?”

Flemeth glanced at him and nodded.

“Why not just kill him and have done with it?” asked Isabela, folding her arms. “Wouldn’t that be the simplest way? He’s near enough dead already.”

“No!” The cry was torn from Hawke’s lips as he threw himself across Anders’ prone form. “There has to be another way!”

Fenris stirred slightly. He had been silent throughout, staring steadily at Anders’ still face; now he lifted his head and spoke. “What is your stake in all of this, WItch? And how do you propose we fight both this demon and an Old God?”

“Let us say that a final Blight would... hinder certain intentions of my own. As would the unleashing of such an abomination as would be created by the union of the Staff and Vengeance in Anders’ form. It is in my own interests to aid you. and no,” Flemeth added, turning to Isabela, “Slaying him would make no difference. He is so close to death at this point that both Vengeance and the Staff are both poised to subsume him. Death is no longer a barrier to their ambitions. Kill him, and you would hasten the inevitable. But save him, and you may put an end to their threat forever.”

“Is there anything left of Anders in there to save?” asked Fenris quietly.

“There is. But not for much longer.”

“What do we have to do?” asked Hawke.

Merrill rose to her feet and turned towards them, bearing a carved horn chalice filled with a dark liquid that steamed slightly. “You have to go into the Fade,” she said darkly. “You must help him confront his foes.”

“There will be a price to pay,” added Flemeth.

“Of course there will,” said Hawke heavily as he moved over towards the nearest cot and started to divest himself of the heavier items of his armour. Isabela, Sebastian and Fenris did likewise as Merrill came to each of them in turn; Fenris drank first, followed by Sebastian then Isabela. Then she stood before Hawke with the chalice as Flemeth knelt by Anders’ head, taking his face between two clawed, gauntleted hands.

“Coming with us?” asked Hawke quietly as he took the chalice from Merrill and sipped slowly. She quietly nodded as she took back the chalice and moved to an empty cot. Hawke lay back upon the pillow. “See you on the other side,” he managed to slur, as the potion took effect.

And then the tent faded away and he was lost in dreams.


	27. Chapter 27

Hawke blinked, and looked up, momentarily disoriented. Leandra glanced up from the book she was reading and smiled. The firelight flickered warmly on her face, reflecting faintly green in her eyes as she regarded him.

“Did you doze off, dear?” she asked gently.

“I... guess I must have,” replied Hawke slowly, shaking his head to try and dispel the fuzzy feeling. He closed the book in his lap and set it to one side; the pages weren’t making any sense and he had forgotten what it was about, anyway. He stood up and stretched, his spine cracking audibly.

“You’ve been working too hard and worrying too much again,” she scolded gently. “Go and see Anders and let him sort you out.”

“You know, I might just do that,” replied Hawke with a rueful smile. Leandra rose to her feet and laid her own book aside on the seat of her chair before reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. The faint smell of lilies and something he couldn’t quite identify lingered around her.

“You’ve grown so much,” she said fondly. “Sleep well, dear.”

“You too, Mother,” he smiled in return. He watched her walk from the room then frowned. Something felt... odd. Out of place. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what or why though. He turned and glanced back at the fire but it offered no clues, merely flickering silently in the grate. He turned away.

Anders... yes, he should find Anders. Wasn’t he going to do that anyway? It felt right, though he couldn’t remember why. He was sure he had something to ask the apostate about, though for the moment just what exactly that was eluded him.

Ah well, never mind. If it was important it would come back to him.

He headed up the stairs, his feet leading him unerringly towards his bedroom. The low flickering glow of half-light within suggested Anders had let the fire burn low. Hawke half-expected to find the mage hunched over the scrawled pages of his manifesto, squinting at his own writing by the light of a guttering candle; to his surprise, the pile of pages sat neatly stacked upon the writing desk, quill and ink laid nearby ready yet untouched. Anders sat upon the floor in front of the dying fire, his back to Hawke as he contemplated the glowing embers.

“I thought you’d be writing, love,” said Hawke as he made his way over to the apostate and lowered himself down to the hearthrug, dropping one arm around Anders’ thin shoulders. _He hasn’t been eating properly again,_ he thought.

“It’s done. Finished,” replied Anders dully. “It’s nearly over now.”

“What do you mean - ‘done’, ‘finished’, ‘nearly over’?” asked Hawke, confused. “You don’t sound very happy, love.”

“Hold me, please?” murmured Anders, his voice sounding fragile and uncertain. Hawke wrapped his strong arms around the slender man and drew him into a warm, loving embrace.

“What’s wrong, love?” murmured Hawke, gently stroking the honey-hued hair that tumbled across Anders’ shoulders like soft silk.

“You’ve forgotten already,” whispered Anders. “You don’t remember why you’re here, do you?”

Hawke frowned a little; taking Anders’ chin with his fingers, he gently tilted the mage’s face up towards his and was surprised to find Anders’ cheeks were wet with tears.

“Of course I remember - I came here to find you,” he smiled.

“But do you remember _why_?” persisted Anders.

“I came here because... because....”

Anders was right. He _had_ forgotten. And that disquieting feeling was returning; he should remember.

“I haven’t much time,” Anders said, his voice weak and shaking, and suddenly

he

remembered -

_Leandra was dead. This wasn’t real. He was dreaming._

“I remember!” he shouted, but even as he reached for Anders, the walls around them melted away like dark veridian smoke, as did Anders himself; and Hawke was standing upon the cold hard cobbles of the Gallows.

He span around upon his heel, desperately searching all the corners of the courtyard for any signs of life. He caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and whirled around to face it, his sword readied in his hand.

It was Fenris. The elf seemed to stagger out of nowhere, one hand clutched to his face in horror.

“Fenris?”

The elf looked up, and composed himself with a visible effort. “A dream. I was...” He shook his head and dropped his gaze. “No. I cannot say.” He glanced up at Hawke. “Have you seen the others?”

“No, I-” began Hawke, but at that moment Merrill stumbled out from another corner. She hugged herself tightly as she stumbled forward a few steps and then fell to her knees. “Oh Creators, no, I never meant - it was all my fault, I should have listened, it was all my fault!” She doubled over, weeping, as the two men hastened to her side.

“Merrill, whatever you saw, it wasn’t real!” said Hawke gently as he put his arm around her comfortingly.

“The Fade... the things it shows us are not true,” said Fenris awkwardly.

“I know, I just - I didn’t expect....” Merrill’s voice tailed off as she sniffed.

“Oh sweet Andraste,” groaned Sebastian as he walked over to join them. He was clad once more in his white armour, bow slung upon his back, though a simple black eyepatch covered the empty socket. “That was... not good.”

“What did you see?” asked Merrill, looking up at him as she scrubbed her wet cheek with the back of her hand.

“I... would rather not say,” replied the prince haltingly, and looked away.

“Where is Isabela?” asked Fenris; they all glanced round, but a moment later Isabela’s voice could be clearly heard as she stalked out from a small alcove to one side of the gate, swearing fiercely. She kicked a small stone out of her path as she stomped towards them in a towering rage.

As she drew level with Sebastian she waved a gauntleted hand irately under his surprised nose. “And as for you, Chantry Boy, one word and I’ll make you pump the bilge water out of the Tern and bloody row her back to Kirkwall by yourself before keelhauling you!”

“What did I do??” asked Sebastian in bewilderment.

“Absolutely nothing, I’ll warrant,” replied Fenris.

“Which is precisely my problem!” snapped Isabela. She gave the hapless prince one last glare then turned her back on him.

“I don’t understand,” confessed Sebastian.

“Ah. Lust demon?” asked Hawke. Isabela merely glared at him. Hawke cleared his throat noisily whilst Sebastian went bright red.

“You mean - you - I mean, you dreamed that I - that we -” he stammered.

“Moving swiftly onward - I think we can all agree that whatever happened to each of us didn’t actually happen, it was all a dream, so let’s move on and find Anders, shall we?” interjected Hawke smoothly whilst Isabela glared venomously at Sebastian. After a moment, she tossed her head with a disgusted look and turned to Hawke.

“OK, fine, let’s go. I need to find something to take my frustrations out on anyway,” she shrugged. “Maybe Anders can dream up someone I can beat up who won’t make me feel guilty about it afterwards.”

“Given some of the nightmares he told me about over the years, Isabela, I don’t doubt you’ll get your wish,” replied Hawke drily. “Come on.”

He headed in the direction of the stairs leading up into the tower, the others falling into step behind him.

The Fade was a strange, misleading place. This part seemed made up from half-remembered fragments of Anders’ memories; the stairs were those of the Gallows tower, but inside it seemed to resemble some other place - as if Anders’ mind were filling in his own lack of knowledge of the inside of the Gallows with memories of another Circle tower. Possibly Ferelden, Hawke thought, as they walked down a carpeted hall lined with books.

They turned a corner, and two children suddenly froze in the middle of a game. They looked up, startled, at the group. Both wore blue apprentice’s robes with purple cowls, the hoods thrown back. One was a young lad of about 8 or 9, with shoulder-length black hair; the other, a slightly older lad with blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. The laughter in his hazel eyes died as he took in the swords carried by Hawke and Fenris, to be replaced by a look of fear as he pushed the younger lad away from them and back up the passageway behind him. “Jowan, run!” he urged. “I’ll stall them!” As he spoke, a glowing nimbus of energy began to coalesce around his right hand.

“Suck on a fireball!” he cried, and thrust the ball of flaming power towards them.

“Anders, no, wait-” protested Hawke, then recoiled as the small fireball exploded over his chest, scorching his face and hands as he raised them to protect himself. The young Anders turned and ran, his slippered feet making no sound on the soft carpet.

“After them,” urged Fenris. “We daren’t lose him!”

They gave chase, pursuing the two youths through the tower; always Jowan and Anders seemed just a little ahead - darting through an open door as Hawke and the others entered a room. Hawke could hear their light feet pattering up a stone staircase; as he shouldered the wooden door wider to follow, he spotted Anders’ ponytail disappearing around the edge of a door at the top of the stairs.

“Anders, wait - we’re not going to hurt you!” he cried as he threw himself up the stairs. “I just-”

He broke off as he emerged through the doorway to find himself in the large entry hall of the Viscount’s Keep back in Kirkwall. He blinked in confusion as the others joined him and stared around the great hall.

“Is that... the Arishok?” asked Sebastian in a hushed tone, staring up at the horned figure who stood at the top of the stairs.

“What have they done to Anders?” squeaked Merrill.

Anders knelt beside the massive figure of the Arishok. His hands were shackled in large bronze manacles before him, and he wore a strange robe, wrapped in chains. A large, leather collar had been placed upon his shoulders, and a strange helm upon his head, blinding him. Most horrifying of all, his pale lips had been sewn shut.

“They have made him _saarebas_ ,” murmured Fenris, disquietened.

“No, that’s all wrong, you can’t do that to someone like that!” protested Merrill. “It’s not right! You can’t treat him like an animal!”

“ _Basalit-an_ you may be, Hawke,” replied the Arishok, “But _Arvaraad_ you are not. This one must be leashed for the good of all.”

“We don’t leash our mages like dogs,” replied Hawke. “I can’t let you take him.”

“Then you will die, _basalit-an_. Your death will be glorious but ultimately futile.”

The Arishok smiled and drew forth his axe and sword.

 _This is going to hurt,_ thought Hawke. _Again._


	28. Chapter 28

Hawke was growing fatigued - more tired than he could remember being in a long, long time. The Arishok was every bit as fast and deadly as he remembered from their first duel years ago. This time his friends were able to help him, but they were for the most part preoccupied with keeping the rest of the Qunari off Hawke’s back. Thus far none of them had succeeded in getting closer to Anders than the foot of the stairs.

Hawke ducked just in time and felt the Arishok’s axe pass alarmingly close to his scalp as he leapt back and away out of reach. He spared a brief glance up at the blinded and mute Anders; the apostate’s hands were clenched tightly into fists, and blood was trickling down his chin from the thick black stitches sewing his lips closed. He was making muffled noises of frustration and anguish as he turned his head blindly, trying to track the course of battle from sound alone.

“Hawke, watch out!” yelled Isabela; the warrior dropped into a roll and managed to evade the blow from a sword which would have cleaved him in two where he stood. Anders gave a muffled scream and clenched his slender fingers helplessly, but Hawke could not spare him a further glance - he rolled to his feet then sprang towards the Arishok, wielding his blade in a mighty overhead double-handed blow which the Arishok effortlessly parried before retaliating with an axe swing that would have disembowelled the human had Hawke not twisted aside at the last moment. As it was, the axe caught the edge of his breastplate and sent him spinning. Disoriented, he staggered, and then cried out as the Arishok’s sword pierced through the resulting rent in his armour and ran him through. He felt himself being hoisted up into the air on the point of the blade, and screamed in agony.

He heard dimly Merrill chanting in elvhen as he hung there, and then a burst of spirit energy slammed into the Arishok, causing the massive kossith to stagger forward a couple of steps. Hawke was sent flying. He sprawled upon the floor and gasped for breath that wouldn’t come.

He was aware of Merrill’s scream, Fenris’ voice hoarse as he roared “No! You cannot die, Hawke; I will not permit it!” - was that Isabela howling in fury, the Arishok in triumph? It all seemed strangely muted and far-off. He was acutely aware of Anders’ voice, keening in stifled despair. He hurt; worse than he ever remembered before; and so tired. So very, very tired. He could feel his life’s blood pooling around him, soaking into the soft Orlesian carpet; he felt drained, a little cold. Something bubbled in his lungs; he coughed, and tasted blood even as agony lanced through him. He tried to scream but had no breath. He was drowning in his own blood.

Hands upon him. No gauntlets; Merrill? A flask set to his lips. He tasted something bitter; reflexively he swallowed the unpleasant draught and felt the familiar tingling warmth of a health potion as it sank down into his stomach. Almost at once the pain lessened.

Sounds came crowding in upon him as he opened his eyes. Fenris’ defiant snarl as the lyrium ghost stood protectively over his fallen comrade, teeth and sword bared. Sebastian’s bow singing. Merrill urging him to get up. Isabela’s scream of triumph as the Arishok suddenly bellowed in pain. And above all, Anders’ muffled weeping.

He pushed himself up onto his elbows and glanced round. Isabela had leapt upon the Arishok’s back; she had thrust one blade through the huge being’s left shoulder, and was using this to hold on whilst she repeatedly tried to stab him with her other blade. She was hampered by the Arishok’s huge horns as he threw his head back and swept them from side to side, trying to dislodge her even as he fended off Fenris with a backhand swing of this axe which sent the elven warrior staggering before roaring in fury as Sebastian’s arrows found their mark in bicep and thigh.

Hawke saw his opening and took it. Seizing his sword with both hands, he leapt forward, thrusting the blade through the Arishok’s chest. The force of the blow drove the greatsword through the body of the Qunari until the hilt halted against the broad chest and Hawke was eye to eye with the kossith. Somewhere behind the Arishok, Isabela grunted.

“A good fight,” rumbled the Arishok. “Truly you... are _basalit-an ___, Hawke....” He fell heavily to his knees and grunted. He gave a brief cough, and then slowly he slumped sideways as Hawke pulled his sword from his chest.

Slowly Hawke looked up, and his heart fell as he spied Isabela lying sprawled upon the floor beyond the body of the Arishok, her white leathers stained crimson by the pool of blood spreading from the terrible gaping wound in her chest.

“No. Oh Maker, no,” moaned Hawke as he threw himself down upon his knees next to her and gathered her gently into his arms. “Isabela, please, don’t die. You’ve got to hold on. Bela!”

Her brown eyes flickered open. “You... got me good, Hawke,” she smiled through blood-flecked lips.

“Hang on, Bela; we’ll get you out of here,” he urged. She smiled but shook her head.

“No good,” she breathed. “Guess I finally ran out of luck, huh?” She suddenly shuddered in his arms, and her breath rattled in her throat as he cradled her. Then her soft brown eyes seemed to gaze beyond him as they glazed over and her breathing stilled.

“No. No, no, no!” cried Hawke. “Isabela, damn it, _no!!_ ”

“Hawke, she’s gone,” said Sebastian gently as he lightly shook the warrior’s shoulder. “She can’t hear you. She’s gone.”

“She can’t be dead, she can’t!” protested Hawke as Fenris took the Rivaini woman’s limp form from his arms and reverently laid her down, straightening her limbs before removing a gauntlet and gently closing her blank eyes.

“It’s not real, Hawke,” said Merrill reassuringly. “We’re in the Fade. She’s not really dead. She’s just... woken up, is all. But she’s not dead. Not really.”

“She’ll be alright?” replied Hawke, clinging to that hope.

“She’ll be fine,” reassured Sebastian. “Probably better than us.”

Hawke stared at her body. It seemed all too real, too dead; but even as they watched, it shimmered then faded from view, leaving only a black stain of drying blood top betray where Isabela had fallen.

“We should go,” rumbled Fenris. “They’ve taken him again.”

Hawke glanced up and around; they were alone in the great hall. Dead bodies of Qunari lay scattered around, but of Anders and his remaining captors there was no sign. HAwke pushed himself up to his feet.

“Onwards and upwards then,” he decided.

Fenris tugged his gauntlet back on as they headed up the stairs. After a moment’s indecision, glancing from left to right, Hawke opted for left and headed in the direction of where the Viscount’s office had been. He was unsurprised to find the door opened instead onto another stone staircase.

It spiralled up, the stones becoming more worn and broken as they climbed. A faint unpleasant tang permeated the air; the walls were damp and cold, as though they were far underground.

“Does this remind you of somewhere?” asked Hawke as he carefully stepped over a small pile of rubble.

“Corypheus’ prison,” Fenris rumbled in agreement. “It would make sense.” As they rounded the corner, they found themselves stepping out into a wide chamber with a raised dais in the centre. Archways quartered the room, leading out onto small balconies; carved statues stood silent guard upon each balcony, mutely facing towards the dais.

The last time Hawke had been in this chamber, it had been empty initially; this time there was a figure standing beside the dais, looking up. It wore tattered and dented old Grey Warden armour, and stood somewhat lopsided.

“Larius?” wondered Hawke. The figure slowly shuffled round.

It wasn’t the old tainted Warden Commander. This figure had long, ragged dirty blond hair, matted with blood. It held its head canted slightly to one side; as it took first one halting step, then another towards them, it dragged the twisted left leg slightly. Its right arm hung withered and useless at its side. The Warden garb it wore was mage’s robes, though with a few additions - such as the limp, bedraggled feathers that still clung forlornly to one shoulder. The patchwork leather tunic beneath was torn, several patches missing, one side seam ripped apart. The grey robe beneath was stained and filthy.

“Anders?” whispered Hawke, horrified. Slowly the creature looked up at him, and he gasped as he stared into the milky-hued Blighted eyes – or, rather, eye; for the right eye socket was empty, the cheek below ruined with scars, the flesh half-melted. The slack mouth began to work slowly, trying to form words. “Aah...Aaaannn... Annn...”

Sebastian made a wordless noise of disgust as Fenris recoiled slightly with a muttered “ _Venhedis!_ ”

“Is... is that what happens to Grey Wardens?” stammered Merrill. “Is that really... him?”

“Love....” breathed Hawke, taking a step towards the shambling ruined man that still stumbled towards him, still trying to say its name with lips that had been silent for too long, bereft of human speech. The lips were scarred with old wounds from stitches ripped open.

“Anders, love,” whispered Hawke brokenly as the revenant shuffled towards him, holding out its one good arm beseechingly. He began to move towards it.

“Hawke, no! This isn’t Anders!” warned Sebastian, restraining the warrior with a heavy hand upon his shoulder. “It’s a distraction, a decoy!”

“He’s right,” agreed Fenris. “We are being deceived. The true Anders must be somewhere nearby, but this cannot be him.”

“Hhh.. hel... hel....” slurred the revenant, its hand still reaching towards Hawke. “Hel... meh....”

“Oh Creators, it wants us to help it!” breathed Merrill. “But how? I mean, what can we do?”

“We can do nothing,” rumbled Fenris. “This wretched creature is beyond our help.” Hawke turned aside with a faint noise of despair.

“This was what he feared, dreaded,” he realised. “He had nightmares about his Calling. He was terrified he would end up like Larius, or worse.”

“We have to do something,” insisted Merrill. “The poor thing must be here for a reason.”

“Yes; as part of Anders’ nightmare, something to distract us with,” replied Fenris. “We cannot aid it. We must move on and find the true Anders.”

“I can’t just leave the poor thing like this - it just wants a bit of love, poor thing!” argued Merrill.

“Merrill, no!” cried Hawke, but it was too late; the elven mage was already moving towards the revenant and wrapping her arms around it.

“You poor, poor thing,” she was saying gently to it as she hugged it. “There, there. It will all be alright in the end. Or at least, I hope it will. Poor thing.”

The revenant closed its good arm around her and rested its head upon her shoulder. “Meh... meh... meh...rih....”

“Merrill’s here, you’re safe,” she cooed to it, oblivious as it turned its face towards the side of her neck.

“Merrill, no, watch out!” shouted Hawke, drawing his sword, but it was too late; the revenant sank its teeth deeply into the side of her throat as suddenly it crushed her slender form tightly against its body. She cried out briefly -

\- and then they were both gone.

“Damn,” said Hawke.


	29. Chapter 29

Hawke stared around the stone chamber, which hadn't changed with the disappearance of Isabela and the revenant of Anders.

"What now?" wondered Fenris, shifting from foot to foot uneasily.

"I don't know - maybe-" Hawke broke off as something warm and wet dripped onto his cheek. He jerked his head back then touched his face before looking at his fingers. It was blood.

Slowly, almost unwillingly, he looked up.

Anders hung suspended high above the stone dais. Fine silver wires that faintly glowed with an eery blue light bound his naked spreadeagled form, wrapped about each limb, winding about his torso and throat. Barbed rose briars entwined their way up his body from left ankle, snaking up around his leg to wrap around his hips before twisting about his torso until finally encircling his lowered head with a wreath of roses of a pale silvery grey hue. He was bleeding from myriad lacerations caused by the rose thorns and the silvery chords that bit into his flesh.

"Is that... lyrium binding him?" whispered Sebastian.

“It is,” replied Fenris tersely. “And something else. I can feel my own lyrium... _aching_... an echo, perhaps.” He shook his head as though shaking off an unpleasant feeling.

Hawke stared up at the mage. “Is it really him do you think?” he murmured; then, louder, “Anders. Anders!”

The apostate was still for long minutes before slowly, hesitantly, the blond head lifted. “Hawke?” he whispered hoarsely. “Am I... still dreaming?”

“I’m here, I’m real,” the warrior reassured him thankfully. “We have to get you out of here somehow.”

“Before he comes back,” replied Anders, nodding slightly.

“He? You mean Vengeance?” asked Sebastian.

“I’m not sure what he is anymore,” replied Anders. “He was Vengeance, but now I think he is become something more. Or becoming. There was something in the staff... I should have felt it, should have guessed, but it was too cunning. Vengeance has been drawing on it to keep me here, but it’s... changing him. I’m not sure what he is any more. Something more than a corrupted spirit or demon.” He shuddered, and then bit his lip and winced as the lyrium wires bit deeper. “Please... can you get me down? These wires... they block my magic. It’s hard to think straight, and I’m finding it harder to tell what’s real and what has been only dreams in here. I feel like I’ve been trapped for years.”

“It’s been a few days,” replied Fenris quietly.

“Time flows differently in the Fade,” replied Anders distractedly.

“Forgive me, but how can we tell you are truly Anders and not another demon masquerading as him?” asked Sebastian.

“Ask me something only the real Anders would know,” replied the mage. “Anything.”

Fenris, Hawke and Sebastian stared at each other. Sebastian shrugged helplessly as Fenris and Hawke racked their brains for anything unique to their shared memories and experiences that no-one else would know.

Fenris lifted his eyes back to Anders. “Yuletide. Your first words to me.”

Anders blinked, and then he smiled slightly. “‘I’m dead’,” he quoted.

The elf turned back to Hawke. “It’s Anders,” he affirmed.

That was good enough for Hawke, who turned and scanned the hall, studying the lyrium wires to see where they were anchored. Anders was suspended just out of reach even of Sebastian, who was the tallest of their small group; getting hm down wasn’t going to be simple.

“This is too easy,” said Sebastian uneasily.

“What do you mean?” asked Fenris.

“We’ve finally found Anders at last, but where is Vengeance? Where is the Staff?”

“You have a point,” agreed Fenris. “Anders?”

“He’s here somewhere,” the mage replied. “I can feel him watching. Can’t you feel it too - the malice? He won’t let me go that-” He broke off abruptly with a strangled, choking sound as suddenly without warning the lyrium wires and rose vines tightened, cutting him off mid-sentence. He jerked and twitched then tried to scream as his flesh was sliced open further by the fine wires.

“Cut him down!” roared Hawke. “Get him down right now!”

Fenris unsheathed his greatsword and swung it towards the nearest wire where it wrapped around Anders’ bare, bleeding ankle and stretched away into the darkness, even as Sebastian unslung his bow and swiftly strung it, setting a broadhead hunting arrow to the string and training it upon one of the fine lyrium threads that snared Anders’ wrists. He breathed a silent prayer to Andraste as he loosed the shaft.

Fenris snarled in rage as his sword blade rebounded from the fine wire; Anders’ body jerked again as the vibration of the wire reverberated through his body and opened up the lacerations further.

Then Sebastian’s arrow struck the lyrium wire that tethered Anders’ left wrist and both arrow and lyrium exploded into a scintillating coruscation of light, blinding them all as a high ringing noise deafened them. In moments the light had spread along every length of lyrium that bound Anders, and abruptly Fenris’ lyrium brands blazed into sympathetic light. The elf staggered backwards and grunted, stunned.

And then suddenly they were not alone.

Hawke was not entirely sure what happened in those few seconds after the lyrium exploded, dropping Anders to the floor; but suddenly he was ducking underneath a roaring stream of actinic flame and rolling away from the monstrously-huge deformed thing that once had been a high dragon even as he drew his sword.

The hideous thing - all rotting flesh and decaying hide over sharp bone and glowing dark green energy, a thing that was long dead and yet not, the eyes baleful with intelligence - regarded them with something akin to malicious glee, and then gestured towards Anders, who was suddenly jerked to his feet by some unseen energy as the rose vines about his bleeding body thickened and threw out further briars, plunging roots down into the very stone of the floor and holding the man snared in their thorns. Anders cried out and then fell silent as the undead monstrosity switched its gaze to him and his eyes became locked upon its malevolent glare.

And suddenly they were all aware of a pervasive singing that rang through their minds; distracting, irritating yet somehow alluring and beautiful - and all the more abhorrent for that beauty. It was a bone-deep call that battered at their minds unceasingly, making it hard to concentrate, to think; and all were filled with the almost overwhelming urge to give in, fall to their knees, worship and surrender to this unnatural thing.

**_He is mine._ **

The voice did not speak aloud; rather, it rumbled through their minds, the singing flowing through, in and around the words as they hung in their brains and felt them in their hearts. And the words made absolute sense. Of _course_ Anders was his. It was inevitable. How could he not? He belonged to the Staff, and this was the God of the Staff, the God of Slaves, and was Anders not the most fitting slave? Should he not yield his innermost essence to this God, clothe it in flesh, grant it his all and be subsumed in the splendour of Andoral even as Vengeance had done?

And yet... and yet....

Hawke was dimly aware of Fenris growling to his left, whilst to his right Sebastian was chanting very softly. Gradually the words became clearer; he was reciting the Chant of Light. And every word seemed to strike a note of discord against the wall of siren song that flowed from the Archdemon, jarring hm a little further out of the reverie induced by its presence and power.

“No,” breathed Hawke; and then again, a little louder, “No.”

**_You shall not stand against me._ **

“You shall not have him,” replied Hawke, hefting his sword.

**_He and I are already one. His life is mine. As I possess him in spirit, so shall I pass beyond this prison. Mine once more will be the glorious purpose and worship which is mine right._ **

Hawke stared at Anders, helplessly bound by the roses and enthralled by the Archdemon, his eyes glowing brilliant electric blue as his skin split and crackled with pure spirit energy. Then Hawke hefted his sword. “Not if I have anything to say about it,” he replied.

The Archdemon laughed. **_And what will you do, puny creature? I cannot be slain by any mere mortal such as you. Here I am unassailable. Here you will fall._**

A quiet, dry voice, mellow with age, whispered in his ear. _“Cut the rose in full bloom._ ”

“Flemeth?” whispered Hawke, but there was no answer. He closed his eyes, and whispered, "Forgive me, my love."

As the Archdemon stooped towards him, mouth gaping wide open to engulf him in flame, Hawke turned and swung his sword with both hands.

The blade flew straight and true. Cleanly it cleaved through rose blossom, briar vine and flesh, cutting Anders’ heart in twain.

And then time itself seemed to stop.


	30. Chapter 30

“How did you know?” asked Anders quietly.

Hawke rose to his feet slowly and turned to the apostate. The chamber they were in was much smaller, darker, more confined; there were no windows, and the single door had only a thin narrow window at the top that let in a small amount of light. The cell was bare save for a scattering of thin straw upon the stone floor, and he and Anders were the only ones present.

Anders was sitting in the corner, knees drawn up to his chest; he appeared to be hugging a small cushion or pillow. He was clad only in a thin tatty grey robe that was torn and stained here and there with blood. His hair was swept back into a ponytail, and a single gold hoop adorned his right ear.

“I didn’t; at least, not at first,” replied Hawke, hunkering down upon the straw in front of the mage. “I’m pretty certain this is the real you though.”

“You came pretty close to killing me, you know,” remarked Anders in a light, conversational tone, though his hazel eyes were dark. “You always did know how to cut straight to the heart of any situation.”

Hawke winced. “It seemed the right thing to do at the time,” he shrugged.

“Oh, it was; that thing wasn’t really me - not on the outside, anyway. But it was still me inside. And if you’d been wrong....” He shivered. “What would you do with me if I were Tranquil? Could you kill me a second time?”

Hawke swallowed hard. “I... don’t know,” he confessed. Anders looked away. There was silence for a few minutes; Hawke glanced around the small cell.

“What is this place?” he asked, curious.

“This is the cell where I spent a year in solitary confinement when I was in the Tower, after my penultimate escape attempt,” replied Anders. “Cosy, isn’t it?”

“Not quite the word I would have chosen to use,” replied Hawke. “You’ve been here all along?”

“Oh no,” replied Anders. “Some of the time it was me. With the Arishok, for instance. And at least a part of me was conscious and aware at the end.” He hugged the pillow tighter and let his eyes fall to his bony knees. “How did you know?” he repeated again after a little while.

“That it wasn’t really you?” replied Hawke. “I... don’t know. Something felt off. You gave in too easily at the end; that wasn’t like the Anders I knew. You were too... docile, almost. Passive. Surrendering. Like you’d completely given up. You’ve never been like that.”

Anders glanced around the cell. “I have been, once,” he murmured.

“What happened to you in here?” asked Hawke, curious. “In the tower, I mean.”

“It was... punishment,” said Anders, his voice and eyes distant. He shivered, then seemed to come back to himself. “I’d really rather not discuss it - not right now, here, like this, at any rate.”

“I’m sorry,” murmured Hawke.

“Don’t be. It wasn’t you who did it, after all. It was long ago.” He sighed.

“So.. now what?” wondered Hawke. “What happens now?”

“I don’t know,” confessed Anders. “You defeated the Archdemon - we wouldn’t be here otherwise. I’d kind of assumed that we’d just wake up after that, so I’m not quite sure why we’re here.” He hugged the pillow to his thin chest, eyes pensive. “I guess I’m not ready to wake up yet. Or perhaps I’ve been here too long.”

“What do you mean, ‘too long’?” asked Hawke with a growing feeling of unease. “Your body is still alive - you can still go back to it, can’t you?”

“I’m not sure I could find my way back to it myself now, after so long in here. The ritual that brought you all here probably allows for you to bring me back, but I’ve never heard of someone who’s been trapped in the Fade for as long as I have who could be brought back.”

“You do want to come back, don’t you?” asked Hawke gently.

“I....” Anders’ voice trailed off and he lowered his head.

“Anders?” Hawke said softly. When Anders didn’t answer, he leaned forward to touch two fingers to the apostate’s jaw and gently tilt his face up so Anders had to look him in the eye.

“What are you afraid of, love?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” confessed Anders. “I’ve been running so long, perhaps I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know what comes next - us, Fenris, Kirkwall? I don’t know. I’m not the same man I was in Kirkwall. In a way, that man died with Justice.”

“Will you not give me a chance to get to know the man who’s right here with me now?” asked Hawke. “To love him for who he is, instead of who he was?”

“I’m not even sure I know him myself,” replied Anders. “I changed when I joined with Justice. Some things... I think I lost. I’m not sure if they’ll ever come back, or if I can ever be again the man I was before Justice. Life was simple in the Wardens, but nothing can ever be that way again. I don’t know what comes next.”

“Do any of us? Truly?” Hawke, adding ruefully, “Well - maybe Flemeth perhaps. You never can tell with her.”

“You have a point,” agreed Anders.

“Come back. Please,” begged Hawke. “I need you.”

“Do you? Do you really?” asked Anders sharply.

“WHat do you mean?” asked Hawke. “Anders, please - tell me what’s wrong?”

“It’s me. There’s something wrong with me. I told you: I don’t really know who I am any more. I don’t have any meaning or purpose in life. You moved on. You lived. You’ve made a whole new life for yourself now in Kirkwall. It’s what you do.” He stared down at his tatty robes. “What have I ever done but stumbled from one disaster into another, desperately trying to keep one jump ahead of either the Templars, the darkspawn or both? The mages’ revolution... it was always bigger than me. It’s carried on fine without me. The mages don’t need me any more; I’m more use as a martyr. The clinic... you’re making more differences in Kirkwall for the better than my paltry little clinic ever did.” He looked up at Hawke. “I’m lost, and I don’t know where to begin trying to find myself again. I draw disaster after me. I’m a storm crow that blew into your life, and all I ever brought you was trouble.”

“Not all,” denied Hawke. “You brought a lot of love and happiness.”

“Happiness? Maybe. For a little while. But where do we go from here?” sighed Anders. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” He wrapped his long arms around his knees and buried his face.

“Let me choose for you,” said Hawke. “Come back. Come back to me, to Fenris. We’ll work it out together.”

“I’m afraid,” whispered Anders.

“I know,” murmured Hawke as he finally took the shivering apostate into his arms and cradled the slender body against his broad chest. “I know. But we’ll work this out somehow together. I love you, and I’m not about to give up on you. So don’t you give up on yourself either.”

Anders nodded, the movement jerky and stiff.

“Ready to go back?” asked Hawke.

“No. But let’s go anyway,” replied Anders.

And they woke up.

 

.....

 

Anders blinked slowly, his eyes focussing with difficulty on the canvas roof of the pavilion above him. A face loomed over him; golden eyes, white hair and a raised eyebrow.

“Well, well. What do we have here?” purred Flemeth. “Awake at last.”

Anders tried to speak, but his throat and mouth were dry and parched and all that emerged was a faint croak. He tried to push himself up, but he was as weak as a kitten and fell back upon the pillow before he could do much more than lift his head. He tried to speak again, and this time managed a hoarse, “Garrett....”

Flemeth stepped away with a knowing smile as there was the rustle of movement all around the supine mage; Merrill was at his side in a moment, a cup of water in her hand which she set to his lips as someone else eased an arm behind his shoulders and helped him to sit up. As he glanced to his side to thank them he realised it was Sebastian; the one-eyed prince smiled reassuringly as the apostate tensed, warily. After a moment, he relaxed back against the strong arm and sipped at the cool water as Merrill held the cup steady.

Hawke stepped up to her side and took the cup, kneeling next to the low bier as Anders sipped slowly. He gave a reassuring smile.

“We made it, love,” he said simply. As Anders gestured with a weak wave of his fingers, he set the cup down.

“Fenris? Isabela?” he asked.

“We are here,” rumbled Fenris, as he stepped up to the other side of the bier and lowered himself down to sit upon the edge. He reached for Anders’ pale hand and briefly squeezed it. “How do you feel, _mi Amatus_?” he murmured.

“Weak. Like I’ve been ill for a very long time,” confessed Anders.

“The sickness of the soul can be more debilitating than the worst contagion,” remarked Flemeth as she strode over to one of the couches and lifted up the staff. Anders regarded her warily.

“I believe we owe you thanks,” he remarked slowly.

“I believe I have been more than adequately repaid for my assistance,” she replied. “Consider ourselves even, child.” She narrowed her eyes and smiled at the staff calculatingly.

“You’re claiming the staff?” exclaimed Sebastian. She glanced at him.

“Child, I do not _claim_ anything. This staff was never meant for mortal man to wield. It is a tool of great power but not one that may safely be drawn upon by any save one of immortal blood.” She hefted the shaft; the lyrium roses flickered briefly, and the crystal lit up with a clear, cold white light.

“But surely it’s safe now? We defeated the archdemon?” argued Hawke.

“You faced only a fragment. But surely you, of all people, should understand how sometimes a part of a thing can be more dangerous than the whole, hmm?” She smiled then turned away.

“Then... the archdemon is still inside the staff? With Vengeance?” asked Merrill.

“Perhaps. It is no longer your concern,” replied Flemeth as she walked towards the door flap. She paused upon the threshold and glanced back at Anders. “Most entertaining. And elucidating.” She turned away. “Fascinating,” she murmured to herself. Then as she stepped away, her form shifted, glowing golden, before the high dragon soared away, the staff still clutched in one taloned paw.

“One day that woman will give a straight answer and the world will end,” groaned Anders as he lay back upon the pillow.


	31. Chapter 31

Anders slowly drifted back towards waking. He was warm, well fed, and had blissfully no awareness at all of what he’d been dreaming about. He was lying on a soft, comfortable bed, covered in warm blankets, and a warm naked body was snuggled up against him, one arm flung almost possessively about his chest. As he opened his eyes and glanced down, the lyrium lines against dusky skin reassured him as to the identity of his bed partner. He smiled, and wondered idly where Hawke was.

Fenris’ breathing changed, quickening out of sleep as he felt Anders stir against him. He mumbled something against the mage’s shoulder-blade then held him tighter.

“I didn’t quite catch that,” said Anders. The elf grunted.

“Doesn’t matter,” Fenris rumbled. “You’re back, you’re awake, and I am never leaving your side again.”

Anders stretched, turning as he did so until he and Fenris were face to face, his chest pressed against the dusky lyrium-marked skin. their noses almost touching.

“You sound as though you missed me,” he remarked lightly. Fenris growled and flexed both arms, crushing the slender apostate against him until Anders gasped for breath.

“Do not taunt me, mage,” he snarled. “You have no idea of what Hawke and I went through. When we thought...” He broke off, and pushed Anders back, his grip upon the blond man’s biceps firm and unyielding. He studied Anders’ chest intently, specifically the scar over his heart.

Anders stared at him in momentary bewilderment then looked down at his own chest. “What... oh. The Blight.” He pressed a hand flat against his own chest and let a little magic flow, sinking his senses into his body. He closed his eyes as he felt cautiously through himself for trace of the taint. Though Fenris’ lyrium flared briefly with an itching sensation at even such a small blaze of power, the elf held silent, watching.

After a moment, Anders opened his eyes. “That’s odd. The contagion has gone... even the taint I usually have as a Warden. It’s like it was never there,” he frowned.

“Then... you are no longer a Warden?”

“I... guess so?” Anders’ voice was uncertain.

“How is this possible?” asked Fenris. Anders shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “This is all new to me.”

“Then... your Calling?”

“I guess I won’t have one?” Anders’ voice was still full of uncertainty. “This is all very odd. I don’t think anything quite like this has ever happened in Grey Warden history.”

“Anything quite like what?” asked Hawke as he ducked under the curtain that covered the doorway, just catching ANders’ last words.

“Anders is no longer a Warden,” answered Fenris as he shifted himself up onto one elbow. Anders rolled over onto his back to glance up at Hawke.

“The taint’s gone,” he explained. “All of it - even the bit that made me a Grey Warden.”

“What does that mean?” asked Hawke as he dropped down to sit on the edge of the bed, one hand reaching over to rest gently on Anders’ chest. Anders brought a hand up to cover it as he smiled faintly.

“It means I won’t die in a few years’ time, love,” he replied quietly. “The Calling will never happen for me.”

“And who says there are never any happy ends to fairytales?” answered Hawke with a grin as he leaned over to kiss Anders. Anders released Hawke’s hand and snaked his arm out from between their bodies to hold the warrior close as their kiss deepened, even as he reached for Fenris with his other hand, his eyes closed. The elf obligingly slid his body close against Anders’ flank, stroking the blond hair back from Anders’ closed eyes as Hawke broke off from the kiss to start kissing slowly down the mage’s jaw. As Anders tilted his head back, Hawke continued to kiss down the long pale throat so invitingly displayed beneath him even as Fenris claimed Anders’ mouth with his own.

Anders’ body arched beneath Hawke as the warrior ran warm hands over his torso and down his naked body and he moaned, low and needy into Fenris’ hot wet mouth as the elf slipped a hand deftly between their bodies down towards his groin.

“Oh, a threesome, what fun! Can I join in?” said a voice from the doorway, and all three men jumped, startled.

“Isabela, you utter cockblock!” groaned Anders breathlessly as Hawke swore roundly.

“ _Venhedis_ , Isabela, you have the worst possible timing!” growled Fenris as he glared at her over Anders.

“Oh, on the contrary - I’d say I have perfect timing!” she purred as she strode into the room which had seemed fine for three people but suddenly seemed far too small and confining for four.

“Isabela, is Anders awake yet- Oh!” exclaimed Merrill as her head appeared around the curtain. “I’m sorry, did I interrupt something, um, interesting?”

“No, I think that was Isabela,” replied Hawke wryly as he straightened, tugging the covers back over Anders’ groin as he did so. Anders threw an arm over his eyes and groaned melodramatically.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account, boys!” said Isabela, a faintly hopeful note in her voice.

“It’s too late,” replied Anders. “You killed the moment.” He peered briefly under the edge of the blanket then slumped back. “Yep. It’s gone now.”

“I’m sure I could bring it back,” Isabela winked. Fenris growled, and Anders sighed.

“That would be a ‘no’, I think,” he replied.

“Did you want something, Isabela?” asked Hawke pointedly.

“Hmm? Oh, right,” replied Isabela. “Anders, you’re very pretty when you’re flustered, you know that?” She winked at him as she turned to Hawke, ignoring the mage’s groan as he pulled the blankets over his head. “I need to get back to Llomeryn and find my crew. Maker only knows what trouble they’ll have gotten themselves into without me.”

“Understood,” nodded Hawke. “What’ll you do for a ship now the _Mage’s Pride_ is gone?”

“Take yours of course,” replied Isabela with a grin.

“Of course,” echoed Hawke, and waited.

“I was wondering... maybe you boys might want to come along?”

Fenris groaned and buried his face in his hand. “No. Not boats again.”

Anders peered out from under the covers and gave Fenris a curious look.

“He gets seasick,” explained Hawke. “Very seasick.”

“Is that all?” remarked Anders. “I can help - there’s a tea I can brew from elfroot leaves and chamomile - it’ll settle your stomach right down.”

Fenris raised his head and glared at Anders. “Mage, if you think I am getting on another boat, even for you -”

Anders sat up and kissed Fenris long and tenderly then drew back a little, gazing at the elf soulfully with big brown eyes.

“No, not even for the puppy-dog eyes, I will not - Maker, Anders, I won’t - _Venhedis_ , mage, will you stop looking at me like that??” He glared at Isabela. “This is all your fault, wench!” he snarled. “What did you do to him?” Hawke and Isabela laughed, whilst Merrill looked vaguely confused.

“I missed something again, didn’t I?” she sighed.

“As ever, Kitten,” smiled the pirate. She put an arm around the elf’s shoulders then glanced back at Hawke. “Think it over, Hawke,” she suggested. “It’ll be a few days before the ship’s ready to sail anyway.” Then she steered Merrill out of the room. “Come on, Kitten, let’s leave the boys to their... chat.” They could hear the smile in her voice as she ushered Merrill away.

Hawke glanced back at Anders. “So what now?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” shrugged Anders. “You were always the leader of our merrily little band, not I.”

“Sebastian won’t be hunting you any more, and you’re not a Grey Warden. Kirkwall’s a free city for mages these days; the only templars are the ones who threw in with the mages - men like Cullen, who are working to try and find a new way. Won’t you come back with us? Help us build a new future where someone like you can love someone like me, and not have all of Thedas try to tear us apart?”

Anders smiled to hear his own words paraphrased back to him. “There’s a part of me would like that,” he admitted, “but I’m not sure I’m ready to go back just yet. There’s just been so much....” He rubbed his temples and sighed. “This Grey Warden taint business... the implications of the Staff... Justice, Vengeance, dying and then nearly dying again - it’s a lot to take in and deal with. I think... I need....”

“I will not leave your side, beloved,” said Fenris quietly. “Where you go, I go.”

“Thank you,” murmured Anders. “I don’t know what - yet - I want to do. Except sleep without dreams, and -” He broke off as his stomach suddenly growled loudly, and both Hawke and Fenris laughed.

“And food?” replied Hawke.

“Maker, yes!” agreed Anders. “I am starving.”

“Come on,” said Hawke. “Let’s get you dressed, then go find something to eat."

 

.....

 

They sat around a low table in the main room of the aravel and ate. Sebastian watched Anders as the apostate tore hungrily into his food, wolfing it down like one who had been starving a long time. After a while, growing uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny, Anders looked up.

“What?” he demanded. “You’ve been staring at me like that ever since I walked into the room - did I suddenly grow an extra head whilst I was sleeping or something?”

“The beard... it’s... You look different. You didn’t have it in the Fade.”

“The...?” Anders reached a hand to his chin and stroked the dark blond growth. “I was trying to hide,” he replied.

“It suits you,” remarked the one-eyed prince.

“Maybe I’ll shave it off,” said Anders. Fenris made a low rumbling sound of approval.

“You look like Varric’s big brother with a beard,” observed Merrill cheerfully. “Like a big fluffy cuddly bear. Except bears aren’t really fluffy, really. And not cuddly at all.”

“Right, that’s it; the beard goes,” said Anders firmly as he got up and walked off in search of water and a sharp knife. Behind him, he heard Fenris laughing at Hawke’s look of disappointment.

When he returned clean-shaven a little while later, Fenris nodded approval. Anders sat down between Hawke and the elf once more and reached for his plate again.

“May I ask what your plans are now, Anders?” asked Sebastian politely, reaching for an apple.

“Everyone seems to be asking that question,” replied Anders. “I don’t have any. I’m a bit adrift at the moment. Hawke wants me to come with him back to Kirkwall, Isabela wants me to come sailing with her again.”

“What does Anders want?” asked Merrill. He glanced up at her.

“You asked me that question once a long time ago,” he mused. “I think... I think I want some time to myself. Not alone!” he added, lifting his hands up placatingly as both Hawke and Fenris stirred and opened their mouths to argue; Fenris had a look of thunder and Hawke looked unhappy. “Not alone! Just... quiet time. Somewhere I can rest, recover, build up my strength again without worrying about templars or anyone expecting anything of me, least of all answers. Just... time.”

“Then... you will not send me away from your side?” asked Fenris.

“Maker, no!” exclaimed Anders. “I want to be with you. Please. Both of you.” He glanced to Hawke, who seemed to relax a little at this. “I’m just not ready for Kirkwall yet.”

“You would be welcome in Starkhaven,” suggested Sebastian. “I would personally guarantee your safety.”

Anders shook his head. “I’m sorry, Sebastian, but whilst your eyes - sorry, eye - has been opened, I doubt the templars in Starkhaven would quite see things your way, let alone mine. A guilded cage is still a cage, and this little bird prefers to fly free.”

“Then... where?” asked Hawke.

“I thought perhaps Amaranthine for a while. I should speak to the Wardens about what’s happened; I can get word to them from there,” replied Anders. “Mages are treated pretty well in Ferelden, and I have some friends there. And my cat.” He glanced down at his hands. “I miss my cat.”

“Then Amaranthine it is,” replied Hawke. “We can rest in Llomerryn for a few days whilst Isabela restocks her ship -” Fenris groaned at that, and Anders patted his arm reassuringly, “- and I send word to Varric, and then a slow leisurely cruise down to Amaranthine.”

“Then if you will have me, I would travel with you at least as far as Amaranthine,” replied Sebastian. “I can travel on to Starkhaven from there just as easily as from here. And if you are willing, Anders, then I would like the chance to talk further with you of mages and the future. I have some changes to make in my own kingdom, and I do not wish to prolong the suffering I have caused to those mages who should have been under my care and protection, not victimised by my blind arrogance.”

Anders regarded the half-blind prince thoughtfully then slowly nodded.

“Then that’s settled,” replied Hawke. “We set off for Llomerryn in the morning, and then for Amaranthine. I’ll go tell Isabela,” he added as he rose to his feet and set off to find the Rivaini pirate.

Anders felt a lightness of heart he had not felt in years.

 

.....

 

Hawke stared at the missive in his hand, then tossed a silver coin to the messenger. “There’ll be an answer,” he told the lad. “Wait here.” He turned and headed up the stairs at a run towards the rooms he shared at the inn with Anders and Fenris.

Anders was reclining upon a low couch, resting against the elf who encircled the mage’s chest comfortably with one arm whilst with the other he held a small book, from which he was slowly reading aloud to the other man. Both looked up as Hawke entered, and at sight of Hawke’s expression Fenris laid the book down as Anders sat up.

“Varric says there are Seekers in Kirkwall, looking for me,” said Hawke without preamble. “I think they’d be after Anders too if they had firm evidence he were still alive - Varric did his best to put the lie to that notion - but they’re actively looking for me. I can’t go back to Kirkwall.”

“Seekers? What are they?” asked Fenris.

“They are a secret order of Andraste who answer only to the Divine herself in Val Royeux,” replied Sebastian. “They root out corruption in the Chantry and protect it from threats both inside and out.”

“The Divine sees me as a threat to the Chantry?” suggested Hawke.

“Well, you _did_ throw out all the templars in Kirkwall apart from a few that took the mages’ side,” pointed out Fenris.

“True,” agreed Hawke. “I don’t know, start one little revolution....”

“You didn’t exactly start it,” pointed out Anders. “You did help it along a little. Well. A lot.”

“Either way, that rules out Kirkwall for quite a while,” said Hawke as he crossed to the writing desk. Dipping a quill into ink, he started scrawling out a reply to Varric as he talked. “Varric will take care of my financial and business interests in Kirkwall for the time being. We’ll stick to the original plan and head down to Amaranthine.” He finished dashing off the reply and ducked back out the door briefly; once the messenger had been sent upon his way, he returned.

“So,” he said, clapping his hands together with a smile. “Ferelden refugees on the run again. It’ll be like old times!”

Anders groaned. “So much for a rest,” he groused, but he was smiling.

Life around Hawke was never going to be dull.

 

~ _Fin_ ~


End file.
